


Arcadia

by Sineala



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Backstory, Boats and Ships, Drama, M/M, Mystery, Polari, Undercover As Gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-29
Updated: 2012-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-17 06:57:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 89,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/548839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala/pseuds/Sineala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To catch an unknown assassin, Bodie and Doyle head undercover on a cruise ship, posing as a couple. Aboard the ship are many people from Bodie's past, and any one of them could be their suspect. In the course of the investigation, Doyle discovers that there are a great many things he would never have guessed about Bodie's former life... and about his own feelings for his partner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wrote this story four years ago; it was the first Pros story I'd ever written, and pretty much my second slash story ever (unless you count a few drabbles), and it's been sitting on my hard drive until now, when I dug it up for the Pros Big Bang. I'd like to think I've improved as a writer in the intervening years, but I hope the story is still enjoyable.
> 
> Thanks to Liriel1810 for the [excellent artwork](http://liriel1810.livejournal.com/281818.html), and thanks to Slanted Light, Londonronnie, and Lysimache for beta work. Yes, Lysimache, I wrote this story for you. ♥
> 
> [Content notes: It is mentioned that (now adult) characters were sexually active under the age of 18, but this is non-explicit.]

The folders that Cowley slid across the desk were devoid of the glossy surveillance photographs usually clipped to the front cover, and Doyle counted down the seconds until Bodie said it. He had to say it. He had better. Five, four, three...

Bodie lifted his eyes from the folder to meet Doyle's. His lips parted in that smug, wicked smile that Doyle knew was for his benefit alone, but his voice, directed at Cowley, was the blandest of bland.

"Are we looking for the Invisible Man, sir?"

Doyle obligingly cracked up, and Cowley scowled at them both. It was good to see Bodie in such high spirits; he hadn't quite been himself for a few months now, and Doyle could never bring himself to ask about it—but perhaps it was all past, and now Bodie could be his usual irreverent self again. He hoped so.

"In a manner of speaking, 3.7," said Cowley, after they had quieted down.

Bodie merely quirked an eyebrow, silent, and settled back in his chair to listen as Cowley steepled his fingers in front of him and began the briefing in earnest.

"Have either of you heard of Plokhoi Volk?"

Doyle glanced over at Bodie. His face furrowed briefly, but he said nothing. Probably didn't know either.

"Russians, sir?" Doyle volunteered finally, hesitantly. Bodie smirked.

"Yes, Doyle, Russians!" Cowley practically snapped at him. "Apart from that?"

Bodie—still smirking, the bastard—was at least good enough to take his turn at the Cow's ire. "No idea, sir."

"I suspected as much," muttered Cowley, probably to himself. "Och, my best team..." He shifted his glasses to rub at his eyes, the very image of a long-suffering saint.

"Sir?" Bodie asked again. "Plokhoi Volk?" He stumbled a little over the unfamiliar sounds.

Cowley looked up and seemed to recall his original purpose. "Plokhoi Volk are a group of assassins. Very old, very secretive, and very deadly. We have received intelligence, reliable intelligence, that they are planning assassinations here in the near future. In the very near future. In ten days, one of their number will arrive on these shores armed and ready to carry out his mission. This is where you two come in."

"Easy," said Doyle instantly. "Put out a description, the usual alert, and we'll nab him as soon as he sets foot in the country. Then in your gratitude, you give us a week's holiday." 

He raised his eyebrows at Bodie, who grinned back.

"I agree, sir."

That earned them another glare. "I'm afraid it's not that easy. Our informant provided us with every detail—except a name or description. We know how he's getting here, we know when he's getting here, we know what he plans to do. We even know where he is at this very moment. But we do not know _who_ he is. We haven't any idea."

So much for an easy assignment. 

"So we _are_ looking for the Invisible Man," Doyle grumbled. "Well done, mate."

Bodie ignored the jibe, sitting up straighter. "If we know where he is now, send someone to find him in Russia. MI6's business." Considering how much Bodie loved his work, even after eight years partnered it was still a continual mystery to Doyle why the bloke kept trying to pawn it off on other people.

"He isn't in Russia. And, due to the circumstances," Cowley smiled a little, closed-mouthed, a bit of flattery, "we are in need of someone with your particular talents, Bodie."

As Cowley looked down to sort through a pile of photographs in his hands, Doyle took the opportunity to stage-whisper at Bodie.

"Better let me seduce the birds, eh?"

"Have at it. Age before beauty, sunshine." Bodie's reply was quick and biting, as usual, finished with yet another smirk. The wit was typical Bodie—but turning down birds? Maybe there _was_ still something wrong with him.

Cowley finally slid a photo across the desk. "This is where he is and will be for the next ten days."

The picture was angled towards Bodie, but from what Doyle could see it looked like... a boat. Probably a ship, not that he'd ever been clear on the difference. It was big, and it looked like a cruise ship, all pale and gleaming. Well, if the assassin was hiding out on a boat, they probably wanted someone with nautical experience. Like Bodie. It made sense, Doyle decided, but then he looked up at Bodie and suddenly it really didn't at all.

Bodie's mouth opened, slackly, then closed again. "That's never—"

"S.S. _Arcadia_ ," Cowley said, quietly, and his voice was oddly gentle. "Her captain is still Thomas Llewellyn."

All the colour drained from Bodie's face. 

"Bloody hell."

Wordlessly, Cowley pulled open his desk drawer, setting a glass and a bottle of single malt on the desk in front of Bodie. It was, Doyle realised in dawning envious horror, Cowley's _best_ single malt. What was going on?

"Bodie? Hey, mate?"

If Bodie heard him, he gave no sign as he poured himself a more than generous amount of scotch with shaking hands, downed it in one gulp, and poured another. He left this one sitting on the desk.

"I can't," Bodie said, addressing, it seemed, his glass, because he certainly wasn't looking at either of them. His tone was—terrified? Terror? From Bodie? What was this about?

"You can," came Cowley's reply. "You can, and you must. It has to be you." 

Bodie took a sip of scotch and shut his eyes. When he opened them, he looked a little steadier. "I see that. It's just a bit of a shock, that's all."

"Before you ask," Cowley said, "he knows we're sending two agents, but he doesn't know who. You'll be introducing yourself to him as CI5 when you get there."

Bodie swallowed. "I—all right."

"Good lad." Cowley smiled faintly at him; Bodie was still sitting ramrod-straight and pale-faced.

What the hell was going on? He'd have to get the story out of Bodie sooner or later. Hopefully sooner, because this was beginning to make him nervous, and not just nervous for his partner's well-being.

Doyle cleared his throat, and Bodie and Cowley both jumped a little as they turned to face him, like they had forgotten he was there.

"I take it we're going on a boat?"

It was Bodie who answered. "A ship. That ship." His voice was raspy. "The _Arcadia_."

Cowley nodded. "She's currently at Cape Town, or rather, she will be when you get there tomorrow morning. It's a passenger trip, so there'll be no problem adding an extra passenger. Luckily for you it's not a cruise. She's not stopping again until Southampton, except once to refuel, so you have ten days to find our mystery assassin."

Despite Bodie's strange and upsetting mood, Doyle was beginning to warm to the idea. It was almost a holiday after all. He opened the folder in front of him, and two small packets of paper slid into his hands. Airline tickets to Cape Town. A reservation—thankfully made out to one Raymond Doyle—for a berth on the _Arcadia_.

"First class!" Doyle whistled appreciatively. "No aliases, sir?"

"Not this time." Cowley nodded over at Bodie, who was finally opening his own folder. "Bodie can't, so we won't waste one on you, either. You are, naturally, a civil servant returning from holiday."

"Naturally," Doyle said, with relish, then, "Hey!" Bodie was turning over the contents of his folder, slowly, thoughtfully, and Doyle saw a small folded packet of paper in his hand, next to the airline tickets, rather than a reservation slip. Doyle's folder didn't have one of those. "You don't have reservations for the bo— ship, Bodie?"

Bodie finally looked up into Doyle's eyes. He held up the booklet, and his face wore a smile that was not at all happy and certainly didn't extend to his eyes like his real smiles did. It was the sort of face one might show the executioner. "Merchant navy passbook, sunshine. I'm crew."

Surprised, Doyle turned back to Cowley.

"We don't know," Cowley was saying, "whether the assassin is a passenger or a crew member. So, as you see, we need to cover both. Bodie, you'll find that they need another cabin steward. One of theirs seems to have met with an unfortunate accident. Your job, both of you, is to investigate. Mingle. Meet people. Find our man."

Bodie looked aghast. At least it was better than terror. "The _Arcadia_ carries 1400 passengers, sir. And 700 crew."

"I think you'll find the numbers reduced," said Cowley. "Sea travel is much less popular than it used to be. And you're not just looking for the assassin; you're looking for his accoutrements. Guns, rifles, bombs, grenades, plans of attack. Our source says he's travelling with a great deal of equipment. He can't keep all that in his cabin. It would be noticed."

Doyle understood. "He's keeping them elsewhere on the ship. We find his things, we wait, we find him."

"Exactly, 4.5."

Doyle frowned. "Then what?"

"As soon as you've identified him, contact me immediately. Details are in your folders, along with all the information we have on the target. Don't break cover, either. Other than Captain Llewellyn, no one is to know of your mission. And no guns, please, gentlemen. We have no jurisdiction in international waters, and it would be a shame to provoke an incident with your usual... exuberance. Your goal is to point the assassin out to us so that we can take him in the minute you reach Southampton."

Doyle nodded. Bodie wasn't going to like having no guns. Clearly Bodie wasn't going to like anything about this, anyway; he was back to staring at the—what had he called it?—passbook.

Cowley stood up, and Doyle did as well. Briefing over. Beside him, Bodie drained his second glass of scotch and raggedly struggled to his feet, a beat late.

"Good luck. You have the rest of the day off to prepare. Your flight leaves from Heathrow this evening."

"Thank you, sir," said Doyle, then he turned to leave. Bodie said nothing and followed him. They were almost out the door when Cowley called out.

"Bodie—"

Bodie stopped and turned back. "Sir?"

"You'll need to be—convincing. Do I make myself clear?"

Doyle couldn't see Bodie's face, but from the way Bodie's back stiffened he was sure it wasn't happy.

"How convincing are we talking about?" His voice was barely more than a whisper.

Cowley stared back evenly. "As convincing as necessary, Agent 3.7."

"Understood."

Bodie's voice was tight, and he turned again. Doyle caught a glimpse of wide, panicked blue eyes as Bodie brushed past him and out of the office, almost running, and the only thing Doyle could do was follow.

* * *

Bodie had broken into a dead run as soon as he had left Cowley's office; Doyle, not having expected anything of the sort, had been a fraction of a second too slow and had lost him as soon as he turned a corner. Whatever it was, now clearly wasn't going to be the time to talk about it. 

Doyle slowed to a more leisurely walk as he headed to the car park, to his car. He had better start packing. Bodie would be fine—he always was, wasn't he, Doyle told himself firmly, ignoring the voice nagging at him that Bodie was much more rattled than he could remember seeing him in a long while. And eventually he'd warm up, tell him what was the matter; they had a long, long flight to Cape Town ahead of them tonight, and that would be plenty of time that surely even Bodie wouldn't want to spend in terrified dead silence. Assuming Bodie didn't get himself killed in his car on his way home, that was. 

He moved on autopilot, without thinking—his car, onto the streets, the motorway, his exit, a parking spot outside his flat—so disengaged from the reality of it that he couldn't have told you how he got from one place to the other and wasn't really aware of doing any of it until he pulled his keys out of the front door and shut it behind him. The pocket-knife on his key ring jingled against the keys, bringing him back to his senses. Home. This month's home, at any rate. It wasn't bad. Dangerous business, for an agent to be so unaware of his surroundings—and here he'd been worrying about _Bodie_. Sloppy work, 4.5, Doyle chastised himself. He locked the door, then locked the door, then locked the door again. All three locks.

To make up for the lapse, he drew his gun and did a thorough inspection of his flat. No intruders. Not that it made him feel better about his laxity. The inspection ended in his bedroom, whereupon he pulled out the largest suitcase he had and set it on the bed. Doyle considered it thoughtfully. He would pack lightly, himself, but Raymond Doyle, civil servant on holiday, would bring everything he owned. The image of an annoying tourist. That Ray Doyle had probably been in South Africa for a month, gawking at tigers. Lions. Whichever the fuck they had there. Maybe both. Bodie'd know. He'd have to ask him—and then he remembered Bodie's behaviour anew. Probably not right this minute, then. It was a little disconcerting how much he took Bodie's presence for granted.

Why shouldn't he? A voice in his head whispered, almost coaxing. Bodie had been his partner for eight years; surely it was natural to get used to having the bloke around. But he might not always be there, another voice chimed in, and Doyle was shocked by the sudden pang of real loneliness that ripped through him at the mere thought, raw and heart-sick...

But it was best not to think about that. That got you nowhere. Ruthlessly, he stamped down on the feeling, suppressing, repressing, as he began to throw a mostly random selection of clothing into the case. Jeans, t-shirts, socks, pants, swimming trunks, his favourite plaid coat. Pair of boots. Dinner jacket, of course. First class necessitated it. After a minute spent contemplating the state of his wardrobe, he added a couple of his nicer shirts and a dressier pair of trousers. You never knew; he might need those. Doyle threw in his current reading material from the bedside table, a ridiculously improbable mystery novel, and pronounced himself satisfied.

He meandered into the bathroom, grabbed a carrier bag and filled it with the usual necessities. Toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, electric razor, comb, shampoo, soap, cologne. The only thing that gave him a moment of pause was the top drawer, whose contents he had to consider. Was it worth bringing? Sure, the impulsive part of his mind told him, and he grinned to himself as he swept the condoms and lubricant into the bag. There'd be birds, wouldn't there? Course there'd be. There always were. And it was best to be prepared. Especially with the lube, which many of his birds had appreciated. Then they'd be pleased with his thoughtfulness, and that was always gratifying.

Doyle's last stop was the hall cupboard, and he hadn't quite been sure he was going to bother until he found himself standing in front of it. Cowley had said no guns. But he'd only discussed not firing them, Doyle argued with himself. He'd said nothing about not actually bringing them. Though, of course, that was probably what he'd _meant_ to say. Cowley'd also said nothing about gun permits, and as such this was going to be more than a little illegal. But they couldn't very well not have any weapons whilst chasing down an armed assassin, could they? He'd have a gun if he needed one, and if he didn't need it, well, who would know? What harm could it do?

He unholstered his favourite gun, put it in its hard-sided locked case from the cupboard, then carried the whole thing over to his suitcase, tossing in his shoulder holster atop the pile. He felt bizarrely guilty about obeying the letter but not the spirit of the Cow's decree. But it would make Bodie so happy to have a gun with them, wouldn't it? Anything was worth it for that. And Bodie was probably packing much lighter than he was—Bodie might not be able to bring one himself. That reminded him...

Back at the cupboard, Doyle reached for his second-favourite gun, sitting neatly in its identical case. It got much less use, as he did so enjoy his favourite, but he wished he used it more. Bodie'd bought him the Browning for Christmas last year—no, two years ago—and he'd looked so pleased with himself that Doyle had realised it was one of those situations where you buy your best mate the present of your dreams and ask to borrow it once in a while. Yeah, Bodie'd appreciate this one. He grabbed an extra holster and some bullets, and with a little leaning he managed to make everything fit in the straining, over-full suitcase. Done.

Doyle made his way back downstairs and stretched out on the settee, not intending to sleep, just to rest a little...

* * *

He awoke fast and badly, startled out of a dream he couldn't remember by an insistent knocking on the door. Reflexively, half-awake, he went for his gun, but he touched only his side. Oh, right, in the suitcase. Doyle shook his head to clear it and sat up, briefly dazzled by the sunshine that had somehow become the muted light of late afternoon while he was asleep.

The knocking came again.

"Who is it?" Doyle called, still muzzy.

"It's me." The reply was, as ever, singularly unhelpful, but it was Bodie's voice and Doyle's heart leapt at the sound of it.

He got to his feet, fiddled with the sets of locks, and the door swung inward to reveal Bodie on his doorstep.

Bodie looked only a little less shocked than he had a few hours ago, still pale and quiet. But he was steady on his feet, and—Doyle sniffed suspiciously—didn't smell a thing like alcohol. He hadn't spent the intervening hours in a bottle, then, thank God. Bodie shifted his weight, looking uncomfortable as he slung a small duffel bag onto his other shoulder.

"I finished packing," Bodie said, unnecessarily. "All set." His voice was hoarse. It couldn't have taken all that time for him to pack only that small bag, but Doyle wasn't going to push him on it. At least he was here. "Can I come in?"

Doyle smiled his best, most encouraging smile, the one he saved for Bodie. "Course you can."

Bodie stumbled in, and it was a mark of how out of sorts he was that he didn't even protest as Doyle neatly relieved him of his bag and settled him down on the recently-vacated settee.

"There you go, mate."

"Thanks. Here."

Something small and dark flashed into Bodie's hand and then out of it, flung toward Doyle. Doyle put up a hand, caught it without looking, and then uncurled his fingers to see his prize. Bodie's CI5 ID.

"Not thinking of resigning, are you?" Doyle asked carefully, trying to make a joke of it. "'Cause if you are, you've got the wrong person."

Bodie seemed to take the question with deadly seriousness. "No," he said, after a long pause, and Doyle let out the breath he was holding. "Not today. Just thought I'd give it to you now before I forgot. I'll have absolutely no privacy once we get there, and I don't want to chance anyone finding it on me or in my things. You, on the other hand, will have a stateroom with a safe and luggage that locks."

"Fair enough, mate." Doyle tucked the ID into his pocket, nestled against his own. If Bodie was going to be that concerned about an ID, no way had he already packed a gun.

There was a long silence between them. Bodie put his head in his hands, then looked up at Doyle, stony-faced, brave, as if he were facing a firing squad.

"I suppose there was something you wanted to ask me," Bodie said. It wasn't a question.

"Of course," Doyle said. Bodie only looked more miserable.

"Go on, then."

He took a few steps back, toward the kitchen. "Have you eaten?"

The life came back into Bodie's face. Surprise, amusement, relief, and gratitude all played across his features in quick succession. "Not yet."

Doyle smiled at him again. "Want to? I've got loads of stuff in the fridge I can cook. Be a shame to waste it all by letting it go bad."

"I'd be delighted," Bodie said, and something in Doyle's chest clenched with unexpected warmth.

"Right."

Doyle ducked into the kitchen and inspected the contents of his refrigerator. It'd have to be stir-fry; at least that would use up the most of the perishables. He hummed a wandering melody to himself as he pulled out a pile of vegetables, then lost himself in the mindless precision of chopping, frying, measuring out water for the rice, mixing a sauce. He knew what to do, and he did it. If only everything could be that easy.

When he stepped back into the living room holding the food he'd carefully portioned out into two steaming bowls, he wasn't particularly surprised to find Bodie hadn't moved from his seat in the twenty minutes that making the meal had taken. He handed one of the bowls to Bodie and sat down not on the settee, but on the coffee table opposite Bodie, and was promptly struck with an eerie feeling of déjà vu—except that this time, their positions were reversed.

"Ta," Bodie said, without looking up, and dug in.

They ate their meal in silence, Bodie offering words neither of praise nor condemnation. Doyle was quite proud of his culinary efforts, and Bodie most of the time at least said something. It was another thing about today that upset him, especially as Bodie had long made his hatred of aubergines clear, usually loudly and vociferously. But this time, not a word of complaint as he ate them. He didn't even pick the pieces out of his bowl and push them to the side for Doyle to pick them off, or try to steal Doyle's broccoli. Considering what else the man ate, he'd never have pegged Bodie as having a secret broccoli fetish, but he did, all right. Man of mystery. And never more mysterious than today. Inwardly, Doyle sighed.

The fork rattled against the empty bowl as Bodie leaned over to put it on the table next to Doyle's impromptu perch. It was the only sound in the whole flat, the noise almost startling.

"Thank you," said Bodie again, and this time he looked up. 

Doyle locked his gaze with Bodie's as he too set his bowl down. "For dinner?" He knew that wasn't all of it, but he wanted Bodie to say it first.

"Not just for dinner." A pause. "For not asking."

"You're welcome," Doyle replied. Then carefully, carefully, gently. "I want to ask, you know."

"I know."

"You don't have to tell me, mate," said Doyle experimentally, to see if saying it made it true.

A dry, humourless laugh. "No, Ray, this I have to tell you. Sorry to say."

"Doesn't have to be now, does it?" Maybe a delay would make Bodie feel better. Doyle stood up, took their bowls to the sink.

Bodie snorted. "I'm not waiting to have this conversation on a full aeroplane, so, yeah, it does."

Doyle picked up a bottle of wine. "Need a drink first?"

A slow shake of the head. "You couldn't offer me enough to make it easier to say, and in any case I'd rather be sober. Might come out wrong if I weren't."

"Okay." Doyle put the wine back down and returned to his place across from Bodie. "Go on."

Bodie swung his feet up on the settee, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. After a long while, he said, "You know I left school and ran away from home when I was fourteen."

"You joined the merchant navy."

A slow nod. "Yeah. You've probably figured out by now I was on the _Arcadia_. My first and only ship."

Clearly, the name had been significant to Bodie, but first and only? Doyle was mildly stunned. "I always assumed you were on a few freighters."

"S'what I like people to think. I was fourteen, Ray, a scrawny, scared fourteen. The good freighters won't take you on unless you've got some muscle, and the other ones—well, I can't say personally, but from what I've heard I'd recommend against them."

"So the _Arcadia_?"

"Only ship that'd take me. And if you tell anyone about this," Bodie's eyes opened, flashed fire, and he didn't complete his threat. He didn't have to.

"Wouldn't dare," Doyle breathed, meaning every word.

"Llewellyn's a good man," Bodie said, and a strange emotion moved across his face, too quick to identify. "Took me on even though I'd not done it properly, not gone to school like I ought to have done. He helped at the end, too, when I was leaving. Could have got me listed as a deserter. He probably should have done. I wouldn't have been able to join the army then, so I suppose I owe him a lot."

"I thought you jumped ship in Dakar, over some fight about the captain's bird," Doyle protested.

Bodie's mouth crooked. "Do you seriously believe every last word of what I say, sunshine? I'm touched."

"You don't lie to me," Doyle was astonished to find himself saying.

"Ah, but I never said it to _you_ , did I?"

"Touché," said Doyle, remembering how he'd pored over the trial transcripts.

A pause. "It _was_ Dakar. April 1964. I was seventeen, almost eighteen. Dakar's a passenger ship port, too, you can look it up. No bird, though. That part was a lie." His face was guarded, shuttered, and Doyle could tell that more information on Bodie's departure was not going to be forthcoming.

"Was it that bad a ship, then?" Doyle ventured, kindly, and Bodie looked at him as if he were shocked Doyle would get that impression from the way he was talking about it, the way he'd looked when he heard the name.

"No, actually. It was—it was great," and that was the last word Doyle had ever expected him to use, and he was actually _smiling_. "Wonderful. I loved it. Every last minute of it. Well, up until the bitter end."

Doyle shook his head in disbelief. "Then why don't you ever talk about it? You'd hardly even know you were there, to hear you talk, and you've got loads of Africa stories..."

"These aren't the kind of stories anyone wants to hear." Bodie shut his eyes again briefly, scrubbed at his face with a free hand. "I was a different person then. And it's not the sort of person I thought I'd ever get to be—have to be—again."

Maybe that was why Bodie had been so upset. Just his past, coming back to haunt him, reminding him of a life he'd left. Doyle nodded, even though he didn't quite understand.

"So, what did you do on the _Arcadia_? It's a cruise ship, yeah?"

"Bellboy," Bodie said promptly. "Only job a fourteen year old could have. And don't laugh, or I'll punch you up the throat." The faintest hint of a joking smile.

Doyle quelled his laughter. "Only a bellboy? You spent three years being a bellboy?"

"Few other things, as I got older. But that's what I was first."

Doyle considered his next question. The mission. "So, this Captain Llewellyn, d'you think he remembers you?"

Another unreadable expression. "Probably. I can jog his memory. If he doesn't, there's undoubdtedly plenty of others who do, even twenty years later—a lot of the crew, once you've found a ship, got your mates there, that's where you stay."

Doyle nodded.

"That's probably why MI6 couldn't find anyone to do this. It has to be me."

Doyle frowned. "I don't follow."

Bodie stared at him directly, almost challenging. "How much do you know about the merchant navy?"

Doyle tried in vain to recall something other than dirty sailor jokes. "Not much more than what you've told me," he admitted.

"Let's just say, if I weren't me, I wouldn't take this job," Bodie said. "And, even though I am me, I almost still wouldn't. It's a very close community. Everyone knows everyone else's business, and not just because they're living in each other's pockets all the time on board. They're nosy buggers. And even if you've come in from another ship, someone'll know who you are. Someone had better. They're very suspicious of outsiders. And they'd know right away if someone came in who didn't know port from starboard, or some other foolish mistake. You've got to be perfect."

Doyle was beginning to get it. "So, because they know you, because someone will remember you, you'll have a chance."

"Exactly. They'll trust me. Or, at least, I'll have a better shot at earning their trust back. Did I mention that crewmen are generally united by a deep-seated hatred of law and government? Spies definitely included." Bodie tossed off the question that wasn't really a question as if the implication didn't concern him.

"Charming." Doyle exhaled, hard. "Don't slip up, then."

"I'll try not to," Bodie said. There was a long pause, and as he looked at Doyle his face was almost apologetic. "There are—there are ways I can behave that will make it less likely for them to suspect me, and I'll—I'll do that, but it's going to be harder with you there."

"Me?" Doyle was confused. "What have I done?"

"Nothing, but—how were you thinking we'd handle the investigation, without breaking cover?"

"Well." Doyle hadn't really thought about it. "I suppose I could try to, you know, talk to my fellow passengers. Presumably you'd be talking to the crew and some of the passengers. But we'd have to work together, compare notes. Maybe you could get me access to the rest of the ship, so we could look for the weaponry together. And I've got me own room, right, you could come by and we could discuss what we'd got."

"Very reasonable. Just what I'd think of. Only thing is, if you're a suspicious-minded nosy sailor, what would you think if you saw the two of us doing that? Two people who ought to be strangers, spending odd hours together, roaming around parts of the ship they shouldn't be in?"

"Right." Doyle swallowed. "Spies."

"Exactly."

"What are we going to do about that, then?"

A strange, almost mournful look from Bodie. "I've got a plan. But you won't like it."

Neither of them spoke for a moment or two. The sunlight outside was growing dimmer; it would probably be time to leave for the airport soon. Bodie tilted his head to stare out the window. Sunbeams illuminated his face unevenly, patterns of light and shadow. Chiaroscuro. It was beautiful. Doyle was seized with the insane desire to paint him.

"Well then." Bodie still hadn't told him his plan, and therefore it was up to Doyle to make a joke of it. "Suppose you'll be running around solving our mystery while I enjoy the sun, fresh sea air, and the company of women, up in first class."

Bodie laughed, suddenly, and it was an ugly, cruel sound. "Oh, no, no, no, mate. No birds for you. Not this trip. Off limits."

"All nuns on the ship, are they?" Doyle said lightly, but Bodie stared through him like he hadn't even heard.

"What sort of people, Doyle," Bodie said, voice very slow, even, almost angry, "do you think spend their lives working on the cruise ships?" Doyle had the oddest feeling he was being tested, and he didn't know the answer.

"Birds?"

Bodie stared at him. "Mostly not. Guess again."

"Er. People who love the sea?"

"No." His voice was hard. "Guess again."

"People who love helping other people?"

A mocking laugh. "Wrong. Guess again, _ducky_." Bodie's voice was high, now. It was almost the voice he used to make those campy, queer jokes, but those were only jokes, and this was cruel, cutting, too _real_.

Suddenly, Doyle understood. Oh God.

"Gay men."

"Bingo." And if the voice was emotionless, at least it was Bodie's own again.

Doyle gaped at him, numb. He felt—he felt like Bodie had looked this morning, in Cowley's office. Bodie had known this ever since he'd seen the picture.

"It's the perfect cover," Bodie continued. "Happens all the time; sailors are always having it off with the passengers. Not the lady ones, mind you; that would be unthinkable. But there's always someone who meets a nice enough bloke, goes back to his cabin, keeps him company a few nights, or more, long as he wants, long as they both want. Maybe more than a few someones. The crew expect it—they know you'll be sneaking into his room, they know you'll be hiding him below decks in out-of-the-way places for your, ahem, trysts. If they like you enough, they'll all cover for you."

It was a good cover, the small part of Doyle's brain that was being rational conceded. It would in fact fit their desired activities perfectly. But —

"Bodie. I'm not gay." And this wasn't pretending to be gay like carrying boxes of Gay Youth pamphlets, this was really, truly gay.

"I know that." Bodie sounded tired. Weary. "You don't have to be gay."

"You just said—"

"Not gay. You just have to be gay enough."

"What do you mean, 'gay enough?'" It didn't make any sense. You were either gay or you weren't, right? And he, Ray Doyle, certainly wasn't. Loved women. Loved 'em.

"There's lots of blokes sleeping with sailors who aren't gay. Wife and kids, everything. Doesn't make you less of a man. When you're at sea, it's like the rules don't apply. It's special. You can be someone you're not. You can be someone you've always wanted to be. And then you can go home to your lovely wife and never tell a soul. Sometimes the sailors do it too—even the queens can hang up their stilettos and find birds. It's usually not the queens, though." It was strange how Bodie's voice got a little ragged. "I'm not asking you to wave a pink flag with me, mate. All you have to do is flirt a little. Promise I'll never tell anyone, if you like. Well," he amended, "except Cowley, but he knows anyway."

Dazed, Doyle managed to come up with something to say. "The Cow _knows_ about your plan?"

"Course he knows. What d'you think 'be convincing' meant?"

"I don't know!" said Doyle, exasperated. "Are you sure that's what he meant?"

Bodie rolled his eyes.

"Fine," said Doyle, quickly, before he could finish talking himself out of it. "I'll do it, I'll do it. What do I have to do?" A horrifying thought occurred to him. "You don't mean we should actually—"

"Of course not," Bodie said, instantly, and Doyle's stomach relaxed. "You'll be safe as houses with me. Just a bit of flirting, nothing more. But it's got to be real flirting. Just like how you'd chat up the birds."

Lamely, Doyle offered, "Can't we just be how we normally are?"

Bodie shook his head. "We're best mates, Ray, and we act like it. Not lovers. They'd suspect something was fishy in a minute. Besides, I'm not planning on being how I normally am, so you'd find it a bit tricky."

"How are you planning on being?"

"Fabulous, darling!" Bodie struck a pose that was so outrageous Doyle had to laugh, and as soon as he did Bodie dropped it, and laughed with him for a bit. "But you won't be laughing tomorrow. It'll be my serious camp, it will. Don't think you'll like it much."

"I'll manage," Doyle said, and he'd have to, wouldn't he? At any rate, it sounded like it was going to be harder for Bodie. How did Bodie know so much, enough to fool a ship full of queens at their own game? The question he couldn't bring himself to ask hung between them, unspoken. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Bodie checked his watch. "We should be off now, shouldn't we?" He stood up.

"Just about," Doyle agreed, then headed upstairs to grab his suitcase.

* * *

Once they were in the car, the hours passed in a blur of check-in counters, bureaux de change, security checkpoints, gates, planes, more gates, and more planes. There was apparently no such thing as a direct flight to Cape Town, or at least none that CI5 would pay for; Doyle was still surprised they'd put him in first class accommodations on the ship. He set the part of his mind that was good at dealing with the logistics of travel to doing so, while the rest of his mind tried frantically not to think about what he'd agreed to do with Bodie.

Bodie, for his part, seemed to be remaining calm. You'd never know he was the same man who'd spent the preceding afternoon sitting panicked on Doyle's sofa. He was cool, collected, the same face he wore for any of their jobs. It was just a job. That was all it was going to be. Once, Doyle thought, he had almost slipped—as they had taken off from Heathrow, Bodie had met his eyes and looked almost afraid again, but then he'd slid the mask back on and said something unflattering about the air hostess.

It was mostly boredom, punctated by the occasional moment of fear as a security man ambled their way and Doyle worried that this time, someone had found the guns that he'd so ridiculously decided to bring. So much for impressing Bodie; he was going to look a prat if he got himself held indefinitely at some godforsaken airport in the middle of nowhere and couldn't bribe his way out. Not that he'd ever imagined he would be the bribing sort. First time for everything, he guessed. Especially these days.

So it was a good thing his luck held. He finally was able to stop sweating when they boarded the last plane, the smallest, as the next day's dawn broke over the horizon, and no one had called him in yet. He was going to be all right. At least about the guns. As for the rest of it, who knew? He'd try.

As their final plane of the day cleared the runway, Doyle looked over at Bodie, whose calm demeanour had become distinctly more bleary-eyed. Doyle had no problem sleeping on planes and had in fact done so through most of the journey. Every time he'd woken up, though, Bodie had still been awake, he belatedly realised. 

He nudged Bodie with his leg. "Trouble sleeping?" 

"Oh, now you figure it out, sleepyhead?" Bodie retorted, fidgeting again with his tiny pillow's placement on the seatback. "Can't get comfortable."

Everywhere he was trying to put the pillow seemed to be deliberately as far away from Doyle as possible. It was mad, almost like he didn't want to accidentally touch him. Why would he—Oh. Bodie must have thought—that he thought—which was _really_ mad. They were mates, right? No matter what the job was.

Doyle grabbed the pillow away from Bodie and plopped it on his own shoulder. "Try this."

Bodie stared at him, unreadable. "You sure?"

"I'm sure," he said, and Bodie relaxed, finally leaning against him.

"If you insist," Bodie mumbled, pressing his face into Doyle's neck, already half-asleep.

And it wasn't that bad, really, Doyle thought as he himself drifted off to sleep again. It was only Bodie, after all. He could do this.


	2. Chapter 2

They both awoke as the plane touched down with a jolt. Bodie sat up, yawned at him, and was, Doyle was pleased to note, looking a little less peaked.

"What time's it?"

Doyle checked his watch. "Nine, but we're an hour ahead, right, so make that ten."

"Fuck," Bodie said, under his breath.

"What?"

"Plane must've been late. Ship leaves at eleven, so we've only got an hour to get there, which is cutting it close. And they won't wait for us."

"Fuck," Doyle agreed, and together they scrambled out of their seats as soon as the plane had stopped moving.

They moved through the airport at a run, which was a bit of a challenge given the weight of Doyle's suitcase, and he was terribly winded by the time they made it to the taxi rank, panting. Bodie tossed his feather-light bag in the air a few times and grinned over at him. Show-off.

They piled into the back of the first available taxi. Whatever Bodie told the driver in Afrikaans must have been especially motivating, because they immediately screeched out of there like something was on fire. Doyle lurched as the cab made a tight turn, and he grabbed Bodie's shoulder for support.

"Didn't know you'd been here before," Doyle muttered into Bodie's ear.

"I haven't been, much," Bodie replied in the same low voice, pushing Doyle back upright as the taxi's path straightened out again. "Was here on liberty a few times, with the _Arcadia_ , but I didn't actually see much of the place."

"So how d'you know Afrikaans?"

"Learnt it in Angola. What, you think they only speak it here?"

Doyle had thought that, actually. He frowned. "Shouldn't you have learned Swahili or something?"

"Spare me your understanding of African politics." Bodie rolled his eyes at him. "I know enough Swahili to get a beer and a whore, and that's it."

"Hmm," said Doyle, noncommittally, and busied himself staring out the window.

After a few minutes, he sneaked a glance over at Bodie, who was looking pensive.

"Oi."

"What?"

"This is going to be like a school reunion for you, innit?"

Bodie sighed. "You don't know the half of it, mate."

That was true enough; Doyle didn't, but at least he knew more than he had yesterday.

Later, when they were pulling up to the port, Bodie nudged him and said in the barest whisper, "It's starting now. Other than when we meet with the captain, you don't know me."

Doyle nodded. "All right. You ready?"

Bodie looked at him bleakly. "No."

The cab screeched to a stop, and Bodie pressed a wad of notes into the driver's hand, saying something that must have been "thank you." They found themselves deposited on the pavement with their luggage, and the taxi zoomed off.

"Big tipper, eh?"

"No, _Cowley's_ a big tipper," corrected Bodie, hoisting his bag onto his shoulder, and they grinned at each other like idiots, their last moment of freedom.

There was a crowd of people milling around the pier, but thankfully no one seemed to have taken any notice of them. If they weren't supposed to know each other, Doyle wondered, how were they supposed to meet up with the captain in this crowd without anyone noticing them coming in together? Presumably a random passenger and a random steward couldn't just show up, board, and meet the captain, at any rate. Bodie's eyes were scanning the crowd, and he figured Bodie was thinking the same thing he was. At the end of the pier, the _Arcadia_ loomed, gleaming white in the sunshine.

"Perfect," Bodie said suddenly. "Look over there."

He pointed with a jerk of his chin to a small, enclosed building about twenty yards down the pavement. It looked like some kind of office. Through a small window, Doyle could see the silhouette of a uniformed man, moving across the room.

"What'm I supposed to be seeing?" Doyle asked quietly, looking away from Bodie.

"Looks like Llewellyn's in there reviewing the manifest, signing papers. He's probably there by himself, with any luck. You should go introduce yourself. I'll be there in a bit as soon as I'm sure we haven't been followed," Bodie murmured, all the while facing the opposite direction. "Don't sit by the window."

"All right." Doyle hefted his suitcase and strode off without a backward glance.

* * *

He knocked on the door.

"Come in," said a man's voice, and Doyle did. The accent was vaguely Welsh, and Doyle felt more hopeful about this being Llewellyn.

The man, sitting at a desk, looked up at Doyle as he entered. He was tall, grey-haired, bearded—Doyle placed him at about sixty—with a kindly face, wearing a hat and uniform covered in rows of intricate braiding. His expression was currently rather quizzical, directed at Doyle himself.

Doyle shut the door behind him, then pretended to fidget nervously. "I'm looking for the _Arcadia_ , and I'm terribly lost—Oh!" He made a show of taking notice of the uniform. "Are you the captain?"

The man nodded. "I'm Captain Llewellyn, and if you go back out that door you'll see the _Arcadia_ —"

"Wonderful," Doyle interrupted, dropping the anxious mannerisms. He pulled his CI5 ID out of his pocket and flipped it open. "Just the man I wanted to talk to."

Llewellyn's eyes widened as he took in Doyle's ID, and for one fleeting moment Doyle thought he'd pulled out Bodie's by mistake, but then the man nodded. "Glad you could make it on time." He stood up a little from his desk, held out his hand. "Thomas Llewellyn, master of the _Arcadia_."

Doyle shook his hand. Good, firm grip. "Ray Doyle, CI5."

Llewellyn waved him to a chair. "Sit down, sit down," and Doyle did. "Tea?"

He was thirsty, but spending too much time here might make anyone else who came in suspicious about his poor-lost-passenger story. "No, thank you."

The captain shoved his papers to the side and peered at Doyle from across the desk. "I was told there'd be two of you."

"There are," Doyle said. "I'll be one of your passengers, and my partner will be one of your crew."

Llewellyn nodded again. "Is he here already as well? We've not much time before leaving port, and I've got a bit of paperwork for him if I'm to employ him. Pretend to employ him. I hope for his sake he knows how to do what he's supposed to be doing aboard."

"He does," Doyle said confidently. "He'll be along in a tick. We didn't want to act like we knew each other."

The captain seemed about to reply when there was another knock on the door. "Excuse me." Then, in the direction of the door, "Come in."

The door opened, closed again, and it was Bodie, leaning against the doorframe, looking exactly as Doyle had left him not five minutes ago. His eyes swept the room, taking no particular notice of Doyle, and instantly Doyle understood how Bodie wanted to play this. His first test: could he fool the captain?

"Is it too late to sign on?" drawled Bodie.

Llewellyn looked blank for an instant, and then a wave of recognition suffused his features. "Will Bodie! As I live and breathe!"

He got up from his desk hurriedly, and the two of them met in a tight embrace. So much for Bodie's worries about not being remembered, thought Doyle.

"It's been a long time," Llewellyn said, as they broke apart.

"Twenty years."

"You've certainly grown."

"And you look," Bodie's gaze roved over the man's face, "distinguished." He smiled one of those smiles that Doyle was only used to seeing pointed at him.

"Always a flatterer, Will," the captain said, and it was strange how he was so familiar with Bodie, who never let anyone call him anything else.

Bodie looked a little pained. "These days it's just Bodie, sir."

"Bodie, then. Of course there's a place for you. You know you're always welcome—"

"Oh, thank you so much—"

Doyle shifted uncomfortably, knowing that there was something going on here he wasn't privy to, but damned if he could figure out what. It was then that Bodie deigned to take notice of him, with the cool appraising gaze of a stranger.

"Didn't mean to interrupt, sir; we can do my papers after you've finished his."

"Oh, he's not signing on," Llewellyn said, and Doyle watched him scramble to find an explanation. "He's just a passenger, said he was lost—" The man got more nervous saying it, as he must have realised how the story didn't hold up, what with Doyle still being here, and he clearly wanted to avoid blowing Doyle's cover for him.

Hang on a minute, Doyle thought. He'd just told the bloke that his partner would be along, wanting to sign on, and Bodie had come in wanting to sign on. And yet, the captain showed no signs of having twigged that his partner _was_ Bodie, which Doyle would have thought a reasonable assumption. It was as if Llewellyn only saw Bodie as the boy he had been twenty years ago and he never thought Bodie could be anything else. Which was, on the one hand, sort of sadly limiting, but on the other hand, very advantageous for them.

Maybe this was going to work after all. Bodie'd passed the test with flying colours.

Doyle decided to take pity on the man and stood up.

"Captain Llewellyn," he said, and Llewellyn turned to face him, beginning to sweat. "I see you've already met my partner."

Llewellyn took a few steps back, stunned, as Bodie grinned happily at both of them, the joyful smile of a child playing a trick.

"Sorry for the deception, sir. Just wanted to try it out. Doyle's got my CI5 ID, if you'd like to see it," and this time the ID that Doyle flipped open was definitely Bodie's.

"You've certainly done well for yourself, haven't you, W— Bodie," the captain murmured, scrutinizing the picture thoroughly.

"I like to think so," Bodie said.

"I'd never have guessed you were CI5," the man said in wonder.

"We're hoping no one else does either," interjected Doyle.

"Well," the captain said, ruefully, "you certainly fooled me. I think we can get this all worked out. Bodie, you'll be a cabin steward, then?"

"So I'm told."

"I take it you'll want to be Mr Doyle's cabin steward?"

"It would be helpful, sir."

"All right. I'll get you a duty assignment. You'll be bunking where the man you're replacing was, in," he leaned over and checked some papers, "Peak Six. Four man berth, with Hull, Rutter—"

Bodie grinned wide. "The old buggers are still here? This'll be interesting."

"—and Lake, who is probably after your time, but I'm sure you'll get along wonderfully."

"Thank you, sir," Bodie said politely.

The captain turned his attention back to Doyle. "Mr Doyle, you'd best be off to the _Arcadia_ now, while Bodie here fills out his forms. Someone will show you to your cabin. And I hope you find whoever you're looking for, with as little disruption as possible."

"So do we, sir," promised Doyle, as he collected his suitcase and headed for the door.

"Ray?"

He turned, and Bodie sketched a wave at him, with a hint of a smile. "Good luck, sunshine."

"You too. See you around."

He smiled back and headed out the door.

* * *

Doyle stared around his new home in astonishment. It wasn't just a first-class cabin. It was first-class deluxe. What had he done to deserve this? It was a shame he wasn't on a real holiday, as then he might have enjoyed it even more, but, as it was, it was still an embarrassment of riches. Maybe he'd send Cowley a thank-you note.

It wasn't that it was as nice as, say, the fanciest of hotels, but it was certainly nicer than tourist class, where the cabins were as bare as prison cells. It was, alas, only one room, but there was a heavy curtain he could draw to separate the sitting area from the sleeping area. The whole thing was done up in rich colours, thick carpet, with fragrant fresh-cut flowers in glass vases. It was pure hedonism. He breathed in, luxuriantly, and smiled. Not bad. Not bad at all. And it was certainly miles beyond what Bodie'd have, down in crew quarters; he felt a little guilty over his fortune.

He even had a window! All right, so it was a porthole, but it was a better view than that of the interior cabins. As he gazed out, the view of the port and Cape Town beyond began to shift, and he realised that the _Arcadia_ was finally underway. Should he go up to the observation lounge and watch the departure there? Doyle considered it briefly, and decided against it. He'd probably better unpack first. There would be plenty of time for the ordered mingling later.

Unpack his suitcase took less time than packing had. He arranged his clothes in the wardrobe, his toiletries in the bathroom, his novel on the desk. Finally everything was away except for the two guns, resting at the bottom of his otherwise empty suitcase. He sprawled on the bed, satisfied with his handiwork, sinking deeply into the plush mattress. Still, he had the niggling feeling he'd forgotten something.

Damn it. The mission. What kind of spy was he? Someone could be watching.

Doyle sprang up from the bed and went over the room much more thoroughly this time. He flipped the chairs over, looked behind the desk, under the mattress, inside the toilet cistern, anywhere and everywhere a bug might be hiding. An hour later, he was covered in a fine sheen of sweat, he had the room more or less back to rights, and he was absolutely, positively satisfied no one was spying on him. At least, not yet.

That left only the matter of the guns.

Doyle considered them thoughtfully. He couldn't just leave them in his suitcase; surely people other than Bodie would have access to the room, and it was best not to chance it. As he thought about it, his gaze lit upon the sturdy safe built into the wall of the bedroom area. Perfect.

Doyle slid the two guns, their holsters, and their ammo into the safe, and then he pulled the two CI5 IDs out of his pocket and pondered them. Should they go in there too? The sensible, rational answer was yes—they definitely had the potential to blow his cover and Bodie's, should anyone find them. But at the same time, Doyle didn't _want_ to. If anyone other than Bodie was going to be getting close enough to him to go through his pockets, their cover was already blown, right?

Besides, it made him feel better, having the two of them on him.

The IDs went back into his pocket, snuggled against each other. Pleased, Doyle slammed the safe shut, pocketed the safe key, and, whistling a jaunty tune, went to explore the rest of the ship.

* * *

Half an hour later, the first noteworthy thing Doyle had discovered was that everyone was especially serious about mealtimes. The second thing, immediately on the heels of the first thing, was that he'd just missed lunch. 

"Terribly sorry, sir," the man in the dinner jacket had said to him, firmly blocking the entrance to first-class dining. "Why don't you try the bar on Deck 3?"

Doyle's stomach grumbled unhappily, but he went.

To his surprise, the bar was actually quite nice—large, well-lit, decorated in gleaming, polished woods—but, unfortunately for his mission, almost empty. It was definitely too early in the day for a crowd to be drinking. Oh well.

The bartender, a jovial red-faced man with an amazingly-groomed moustache, was more than happy to get him a pint of beer and a ploughman's. Food, glorious food, at last.

Doyle nibbled on his cheddar and considered the only other people in the bar, a noisy group of men laughing at the far end of the room. Not likely to want to talk to him. Their voices were loud, rough, working-class. A couple of them wore the white uniforms Doyle associated with sailors, but most were dressed in collared white shirts and neat dark trousers. Probably they were mostly hotel-side workers, off-duty. Like Bodie. They might even be on the night shift, getting their drinking in now. But none of them were Bodie, and why the hell did he miss the bloke already?

He polished off the last of the bread and stood up. Time to find something more productive to do.

* * *

Two hours later, he'd been in every part of the ship a first class passenger could go without raising eyebrows and not seen anything suspicious. Not that he'd thought it would be that easy, but he'd secretly been hoping the first-class library had contained plastic explosive and he could just get the mission over with. Sadly, there were only books and some chairs with truly tacky upholstery.

It was a good opportunity for people-watching, Doyle told himself, as he returned to his room for his book and came back out to commandeer a deck chair. Plus, it was a lovely day, the sun was shining, and he planned to enjoy his holiday, just as Ray Doyle, civil servant, would have done.

He lay down, picked up his book, then thought about it briefly, put the book back down, and pulled his t-shirt over his head. Even if it wasn't a real holiday, half the fun was coming back and showing off your tan to your mates, right? They'd all been bitterly jealous of Murphy, that one miserable February when the streets were full of hail and slush and he'd somehow got the chance to go off to the States—Florida, was it?—and spent a good fortnight or so rubbing their noses in his good fortune. Bastard.

As Doyle settled back down to bask in the sunlight, a uniformed sailor trotted past, moving quickly, probably on urgent business. But he wasn't moving so fast that Doyle didn't notice the look the man gave him, an admiring sort of up-and-down glance, very quick, very discreet.

If it had happened last week, Doyle would probably not have noticed anything unusual about it. People always looked at him. Most of the time, in fact, he encouraged it. But it was happening today, and because of that Doyle was suddenly, painfully conscious of what Bodie had told him yesterday about the sort of men who worked at sea. The man was looking to see if Doyle would have sex with him. 

By the time he'd put all this together, of course, the man was long since gone. It was probably for the best, because Doyle had no idea what he would've done about it, anyway.

* * *

Another hour later, and Doyle was slightly less pasty-white and significantly more restless. Bored, bored, bored. There was only so long he could sit without doing anything, after all. And he'd seen nothing of interest, although three more crewmen and a bird who was certainly not his type had all given him the once-over. Probably it was time to mingle. Where?

He spied the shuffleboard area, teeming with white-haired old geezers, just as he'd thought it might be. Of course, it was very, very unlikely that any of them were his mystery assassin, but it didn't hurt to be sure. Besides, it was something to do.

* * *

An hour after that, Doyle's next major discovery was that shuffleboard played competitively didn't make you any friends on a cruise ship. In fact, it pretty much just made enemies.

It had started out well enough. Doyle'd introduced himself, they'd all introduced themselves, and they'd settled down for a game. But, Doyle had discovered, they weren't actually playing to _win_ , and they seemed to regard his agonistic joy with distaste. It was inconceivable—they only wanted to talk about the mundane details of their holidays while occasionally thwacking the puck about. What was the point of playing if you didn't want to win? Idiots.

So of course he'd won two games in quick succession and alienated everyone. Almost everyone. He was still playing, but the only person who was playing with him now was a little old lady, perhaps seventy-five, all wrinkles and age spots, wearing a lavender dress and an enormous floppy hat. She'd only arrived after the first game, so he hadn't learned her name yet. But she could _play_.

She adjusted her huge flowered handbag, took a better grip on the cue, and with a look of intense concentration, hit the puck. It slid slowly down the court, right onto the space marked "ten." And this was the last frame. She'd won.

"Good game," Doyle said, holding out his hand, and the lady grinned devilishly at him as she shook it. "Nice to find someone who wants to actually play, for a change," he added, with a conspiratorial edge.

"Indeed. Exhilarating," she concurred.

"I'm Ray Doyle," Doyle told her. "Call me Ray."

"Gladys," she said. "Gladys Evans."

"Nice to meet you, Gladys. So, er, what brings you here?"

And clearly that was the right question to ask, because Gladys just opened up to him. "I'm travelling home," she said, importantly. "I've been on this ship since _India_."

"No," Doyle breathed, feigning amazement.

"Oh, yes. My youngest daughter lives there, you see, in Goa, with her husband, and she's just had her first baby, a boy; they named him Brian, you know."

She dug through her voluminous handbag and presented Doyle with a photograph. He had to agree that Brian was certainly the prettiest baby he'd ever seen. He was warming up to her; really, she was just someone's good old gran.

Her eyes narrowed almost suspiciously at him. "I don't think I've seen you around before, Ray. I'd remember you."

"I'm new. Just came on board today. Was on holiday in South Africa. It was lovely, but now I'm for home as well."

"Oh? What do you do?"

"Civil servant," Doyle said, his favourite cover, because it was true.

"Oh," Gladys cooed. "How interesting. Roger, over there," she gestured to a man in a striped shirt, "used to be a civil servant, but he's retired now. He's travelling with his wife, Anne, and they're ever so darling together, you should see them. They each order the same dish at _every meal_. Fred there doesn't like the way they do that though, because he's almost always planning to have the same thing, and ooh, it makes him cross when someone does that." 

Doyle pretended to look impressed. "You must know an awful lot about everyone on the ship, Gladys. Marvellous!"

She preened. "I only like to know things. It's interesting, people's lives and what they get up to, isn't it?"

Despite himself, Doyle was beginning to feel actually happy. "It certainly is. Why, you're a regular Miss Marple."

"She's my very favourite character," the lady agreed.

"So is there a Mr Evans?" Doyle asked, deciding a bit of charm couldn't hurt.

"Ooh, bit cheeky, aren't you?" Gladys admonished him. "No, he's passed on."

"A fellow can hope." Doyle fluttered his eyelashes at her, and she giggled.

"You're young enough to be one of my sons, Mr Doyle," she said, "but I'd be happy to play shuffleboard with you any time. These men just can't play properly."

"I'd be honoured," said Doyle, grinning. "Shall we say same time tomorrow?"

"Perfect."

"It was nice meeting you," Doyle called back, as he sauntered off with a smile on his face. It was relaxing being on holiday. And, on the upside, by now it was almost time for dinner.

* * *

The first-class dining room was every bit as elegant as he'd thought it would be. Candlelight, dinner jackets, soft music, the works. Unfortunately, for the sake of his mission, it wasn't full, so the grand table at which they'd seated him only held two people for him to evaluate.

They were a married couple, William and Alice, they'd said. William worked in finance, and they lived in London. Now, of all the people he'd seen today, William looked like an assassin. He was a huge man, burly, imposing, barely fitting his jacket. And he hardly said anything, just sat there eating and watching. It was mildly suspicious. But there were so many people aboard. The assassin could be any one of them.

He watched the dining stewards move across the floor with their trays as he picked at his food, sipped his wine. They moved smoothly, elegantly. And none of them were Bodie, because this wasn't even Bodie's _job_. What did Bodie get to eat? he wondered. Were they feeding him enough? Oh, he was being ridiculous. Bodie was fine. He was a grown man; he could take care of himself.

* * *

Doyle shut his cabin door behind him, feeling drained and ready for bed. The responsible thing would be to ignore it, to go out anyway, check the ship's bars, mingle. It was early yet.

But Bodie hadn't contacted him, so he'd have no chance of finding him at any of the bars. He couldn't pick up a bird, for the sake of his cover, which only left men, and he wasn't interested in that.

Bedtime, then.

Doyle stripped off his clothes, leaving a trail along the carpet as he made for the shower. He turned the tap on, letting the warm water, blood-hot, sluice over him, relax him, as he made his usual ablutions.

As he lathered his chest with soap, his cock stirred, began to stand at attention. Doyle looked down at it dispassionately, as if it weren't a part of himself but rather a mildly inconvenient obstacle he had to deal with. Some days he just felt like that. Should he bother? Why the hell not, he thought. Wasn't like he was going to get to meet anyone who'd take care of it for him. He remembered how he'd been so hopeful, packing the condoms, but now he knew they'd just been dead weight in his luggage. Taking up space.

He took himself in hand, brisk and businesslike, and he gave his cock a few hard strokes in the way that always got him off quickly when he didn't want to bother with it. It wasn't as if there was anything, or anyone, worth waiting for anyway. Slide, slide, squeeze, yes, right there, just as usual —

Thinking about nothing in particular, Doyle closed his eyes, leaned against the shower wall, and came all over his fist. He sighed, opened his eyes again, and let the water, feeling cooler against his skin now, wash away all traces of his lonely endeavour down the drain. He felt strangely pathetic. Wanker. Literally.

The rest of his shower was just as businesslike. Taps off, towel off, throw the towel on the bathroom floor, crawl into bed.

It was dark and quiet, and Doyle didn't dream.


	3. Chapter 3

Doyle awoke early, which was to be expected given the time he'd gone to bed, but nonetheless feeling a little more cheerful than he had yesterday. He was on holiday! Time to make the most of it.

He rose and wandered into the bathroom, on his way almost tripping over the clothes he'd worn the day before. Had he really worn boxers with hearts on them? Oh, yeah, he remembered them now; they'd been a gift from a well-meaning girlfriend, and he'd never quite managed to throw them away. Well, who was going to notice them anyway?

Once he'd dressed and made it out of his room, he discovered that breakfast was populated by an entirely different set of people than dinner on account of the time—the late risers weren't up yet. Any chance to meet more people was worth taking advantage of. Maybe he'd get up later tomorrow.

His dining companion this morning was one David Smith, a name so generic that Doyle would have suspected the man of being an assassin for sure, if not for the fact that the man was mind-numbingly _dull_ in a way that only years of daily practice could hone. He was the very apex of dullness.

"I love cruise ships," said Smith—"call me David," he'd said, of course—with a very satisfied look. "I'm trying to travel on them all. I've got one more to go with this company. Haven't been on the _Oriana_ yet."

"Really." Doyle picked at his eggs. He was sorry he'd asked the man anything.

"And now I've got an early start on the morning! Lovely clear day, isn't it?"

Doyle agreed that it was.

The man continued in his nasal drone. "Perfect for my hobby."

Doyle tried not to sigh. The man wanted him to ask, of course. "What hobby's that?"

"Photography!" The man's hazel eyes actually gleamed, and he patted the zipped camera bag next to him. "I've been taking snaps, all parts of the ship, you understand. They'll go right in this album I've had specially made, with 'Arcadia' on it, next to my albums for the other ships."

He tried to sound deeply interested. "Oh?"

Smith seemed ridiculously excited at that. He must have bored all the other guests to tears long ago. "I've got my best pictures with me. If you'd like to see them—"

"Maybe some other time," Doyle said hastily, and Smith's face fell. Damn it. "Er, or maybe breakfast tomorrow, or the next day." The man perked right back up. The things Doyle did for his country. 

"I look forward to it, Mr Doyle. I hope you'll like my comparison of the different dining areas of all the ships in pictorial form. I've drawn overhead layouts as well."

"Great." Doyle gave the word all the enthusiasm he could muster. "As I'm new, I was wondering what you'd recommend to do on board. Other than your photography," he added. "Since you've seen the whole ship by now."

Smith puffed out his chest, seeming to enjoy being relied on, and looked thoughtful. "Well, I always like the swimming. We've got our own first-class pool, you know. None of the tourist riff-raff allowed in." 

He looked at Doyle as if he expected him to join him in his disdain, and Doyle hurriedly agreed. "Much better that way."

Swimming. He hadn't been swimming in a while. The idea had a certain appeal. Finishing the rest of his breakfast, he thanked the man, who was now looking at Doyle as if he was his new best friend, and he got up.

"I'll bring my album tomorrow," Smith called as he left. There was no chance of the man forgetting, was there? "Or maybe we can meet in my cabin?" Doyle heard him continuing. God, no.

He'd definitely have to have the late breakfast tomorrow. Maybe there'd be some birds there.

* * *

The day always looked much better when you'd eaten, Doyle thought as he slipped back into his room to change into his swimming trunks.

His first impression was that the cabin looked somehow different, and he tensed, thought about his gun, and then thought again. Oh. It had been cleaned. Probably by Bodie, whose job it was, after all. Shame he'd come when Doyle was out. Maybe he'd done that on purpose.

The bed had been made, the carpet hoovered, and the wet towels in the bathroom removed; there was a crisply-folded stack of new towels resting on the bed. The line of yesterday's clothing that he hadn't bothered to pick up had even been moved too, neatly laid on a corner, shirt and trousers folded, with the unfortunate heart-patterned boxers he'd been wearing yesterday set on top. Thanks, Bodie. He amused himself briefly pondering how much he should tip Bodie at the end of the voyage, just because he knew the bloke would be narked if he did at all, and even more narked if it was an insultingly small amount. A win-win situation.

He should probably move the towels back to the bathroom, he thought, and walked over to the bed to pick them up. As he lifted the pile, he felt something light slip from between them, falling through his fingers to land on the floor. A piece of paper.

Forgetting entirely about the towels, Doyle bent down and grabbed the paper. It was a small scrap, white, unlined, and the messy handwriting was definitely Bodie's, although the note was unsigned. If he'd had any doubts about the identity, the contents more than confirmed it:

_Sunshine —_  
 _There's a lovely party tonight. Bar on Deck 3, 2100 hours. Just your sort of crowd. Brush your teeth._  
 _XOXO_

Hugs and kisses? Berk. Doyle was smiling anyway.

He folded the note to put it in his pocket, and that was when he noticed the writing on the back, still in Bodie's hand, but the ink blue rather than black. The pen they'd given him, on the desk, was blue. He'd probably added it later, once he'd got here, because it read:

_P.S. Nice underpants._

That settled it. 10p gratuity at the end of the voyage.

* * *

Swimming had been an excellent idea, Doyle thought, as he dived smoothly into the deep end. The water was clear and cool. Five feet under, he kicked, turned lazily onto his back, and opened his eyes to see the blurry sun refracting down onto him, projecting the sunlit ripples of the pool across his body. For a minute he let himself forget about the op, forget about the assassin, forget about what he'd have to do later on with Bodie, and just _be_. It was peaceful. 

Until he had to come up for air. He broke through to the surface, gasping and shaking wet hair from his eyes as he treaded water. He had a sneaking suspicion that he used to be able to hold his breath for longer than that. It was a good skill to have. CI5 ought to have a pool. He pictured himself bringing it up to the Cow and then shook his head ruefully. Not likely.

He swam a slow lap, exulting in the feel of the water pushing back against his skin. The pool was mostly quiet. There were two women splashing about in the shallows, and Doyle eyed them in their bikinis with interest. Nice view. But it wouldn't do to be obvious about it, not with his cover, although, Christ, the blonde was a looker, wasn't she? Yeah. Maybe later, he told himself firmly. After they'd found the assassin. He and Bodie could have some sort of choreographed break-up and then there could be birds, right? Right.

And until then, it didn't mean he couldn't look, right? As he swam by, he opened his eyes again, the better to admire the blonde's long legs. It was only having his head underwater that prevented him from smiling.

A few laps later, his routine was interrupted by the splash of someone else entering the pool. A man, maybe Doyle's age, dark-haired, in the smallest pair of swimming trunks he'd ever seen, well-defined muscles rippling as he swam. Now someone more like this bloke, he ought to be seen ogling, yeah? It was unfair, that's what it was.

The bloke looked him over approvingly in much the same way the sailors had yesterday and flashed him a grin. "Race you?"

"Yeah, all right," said Doyle, never one to turn down a contest.

They pushed off from the wall at the same time, and Doyle concentrated only on the movement—kick, paddle, kick—until he felt his fingers hit the far wall. He pulled up, threw his head back—and saw that the other man had been there already for several seconds. _You see, sir_ , he imagined telling the Cow, _if only we had a pool..._

"Congratulations."

The man grinned at him. "It was very close." His eyes slid over Doyle's body, and his smile turned into something inviting.

"Race you back," Doyle blurted out, and this time he won. Of course, he had had a bit of a head start.

At the other end of the pool, the stranger grinned at him again. 

"I'm Michael."

"Ray," Doyle told him, remembering again what Bodie had said about the goings-on. If there were passengers who wanted to sleep with the sailors, it made sense that they might try their luck with the other passengers. Seemed to be what was going on here, at any rate.

Doyle smiled back and, curiously, wasn't at all afraid. It wasn't as if he was going to fuck Michael here, or at all, so what was the harm in flirting a little? Nothing, right? Yes, he was being a bit of a cocktease, but it was in the name of national security. He levered himself up out of the water onto the edge of the pool, flexing a little, and watched Michael's eyes follow his every movement. Well, why not? Doyle knew he didn't look half bad.

"New on board?" Michael asked. Was everyone going to ask him that? Did they all really know everyone in first class? They must, then.

Doyle nodded. "That obvious?"

"Sort of, yeah."

He cleared his throat. Time to try to establish his cover. "Since I'm new here, you wouldn't happen to know any places where blokes," he lowered his voice and felt only a little guilty at the deception, "er, like to meet? I could use, er, a friend."

Michael looked furtively around the pool area and replied in the same low voice, "Have you seen the bar on Deck 3?"

He'd been there, hadn't he? And that was where Bodie wanted to meet; perfect that his cover now had a reason to know about it. Excellent.

"Yeah," Doyle said. "Was there yesterday afternoon. Didn't seem anything special."

"Ah, but you should go at night." The man touched him, a little too familiarly, on the shoulder. "Night's when it's really exciting. Especially if you want to meet any of the sailors."

Doyle gave a half-interested smile. "Thanks, mate. Maybe I'll see you there tonight."

"I'd like that," said Michael, wistfully, and as Doyle made the usual goodbyes and hopped to his feet, he could almost feel him staring at his arse as he walked off.

* * *

Gladys was on time for their shuffleboard rematch, decked out in some kind of floral print and a hat with a great big bow. It was hideous, and he was grinning as he saw her.

"Mr Doyle!" she cried excitedly from the other end of the court. "You remembered!"

Doyle strode up to her, laughing. He liked the old bird. "Now remember, call me Ray."

"Oh, very well, Ray," she said, hefting her cue. "Are you ready?"

"I'm ready." Doyle grabbed his own cue. "So," he said as he made his shot, "how are things, Miss Marple?"

"Don't think you can distract me like that," she warned, making her shot, and Doyle had to smile.

"Wouldn't dream of it. Just making conversation."

"Oh, well, today we all had fruit salad for breakfast, as it was fresh, but Fred—you remember Fred?—just had to be contrary, and _he_ had bacon, and he was miserable, he was, didn't like it in the slightest. And there was this girl, have you met her? Pretty young thing, looks sad all the time, such a shame. Her name's Maria."

"Haven't met her," Doyle said honestly.

"You should. Maybe she'll talk to you. She won't talk to any of us," and Gladys harrumphed, making it clear what she thought of unsociable people. "She's travelling with her father, though she must be too old to be living at home. Youth these days. And she won't say a word; just looks sadly at everyone."

"Sounds sad."

"If you come later, maybe you'll see her," Gladys volunteered.

"I went to breakfast early today." Doyle wrinkled his nose. "I met a David Smith. Don't know if you've—"

"Oh, _him_ ," Gladys complained. "He's why we all go to breakfast later. Terrible bore, isn't he?"

Doyle actually laughed out loud. "I wasn't going to say so, Gladys."

"Well, I can. Privilege of the elderly," she declared. "That and the hats."

"The hats?"

"The hats!" she said, pointing at hers. "Young ladies these days, they're so concerned with looking _fashionable_ that they'll never know how comfortable these old things are. Well, I don't have to worry, and I know they'll keep the sun off my face. Now, I remember when I was about your age..."

And she was off, launching into an unbelievable tale about a cruise that she'd taken with her husband. Doyle nodded in the right places, laughed in the right places; he was having a good time, he really was. Gladys was quickly turning out to be his favourite person of the journey so far. Not that there was much competition.

Half an hour later, she'd beaten him. Again. But it was close, Doyle noted with pride. They had been tied, and it was only in the very last frame that she'd managed to pull ahead. He was sure that if they played again, he'd have it. Maybe tomorrow.

* * *

What with a nap and a quite respectable dinner of roast beef and vegetables, time hadn't dragged as much as he'd feared it might. It was nine o'clock, and Doyle had showered, shaved, and, as requested, cleaned his teeth. He felt a little silly as he buttoned up the dark red shirt that he knew looked good on him—it was almost like going on a date. Except, well, it wasn't really a date, of course. Still, there was no point in looking scruffy; he ought to try to look like the sort of person that whoever it was Bodie was being would want to pick up. Unless Bodie liked scruffy. How could he be expected to know?

The Deck 3 bar was much more crowded than yesterday. A tumult of noise and light practically assaulted Doyle as he stepped in. It was full of people. No, he corrected, looking about again—not people, _men_. No women. He almost had to laugh. Bodie thought this was his sort of crowd, did he? Maybe it was, for the person he was being. Ray Doyle, just gay enough. Right.

He was sure many of the people here were off-duty crew, as they had been last time. There was a group of three hotel workers in their fancy clothes at the other side of the room. As he watched, one of them made an exaggerated campy gesture and laughed; he could hear the others titter. There were a few of the more manual-labour types, huge hulking men, chatting with each other casually, and even they were flicking their wrists about. Through the noise and glare, people, probably passengers like Doyle wandered, some looking a little overwhelmed, most looking positively lecherous. Charming. Time to wait for Bodie. Should he get a drink first? Nah, Bodie could buy him one. Or several. It was all the Cow's money anyway.

Doyle leaned against a table to wait. As he lounged, he saw a few glances flicker over at him and a smile or two. Great. Just great. It wasn't enough to have to deal with Bodie; he'd probably have to fend off everyone else too.

A low voice in his ear said, "May I buy you a drink?"

He turned, expecting to see Bodie, but it wasn't. It was just another passenger, a balding, mousy man in thick glasses. Probably an accountant. Even for gay-enough, Doyle thought, probably not his type. He ostentatiously looked the man up and down, smiled a friendly thanks-but-no-thanks smile and sniffed.

"Sorry. Not thirsty."

The man shrugged. "No harm in asking, eh?"

Behind him, Doyle saw another man, eyes fixed on him, moving in for the kill—it looked like Michael from the pool, and he was in no mood to deal with that confrontation—so he hastily abandoned his table and headed across the room to the far wall, to lounge there. Christ. Bodie had better get here soon before he found himself beating all the patrons off with a stick, otherwise his cover as even gay-enough wasn't going to hold.

His new position was much closer to the knot of hotel workers he'd seen upon entering. There were three of them, one with his back to Doyle. The two he could see were older men, a taller, thinner one with greying reddish hair, and a shorter one, dark-complexioned. They weren't quite touching, but the way they stood next to each other was much closer than one might stand with a friend, and the shorter one raised an arm to almost, but not quite, brush the other man's shoulders. A couple, then.

The third man turned, casually glanced over at him, and Doyle did a double-take. Bloody hell. Bodie had been here all along.

The man who was looking at him... wasn't Bodie. Of course he was, in terms of general physical appearance, but the rest of him—wasn't. The controlled grace with which he usually held himself was still there, but he seemed lazier. Indolent. In fact, Doyle realised, it was campy. Queer.

His voice, from what Doyle could tell from the snatches of conversation he'd overheard, was higher. He'd heard Bodie camping at him before, of course, but this was different. Less extreme, somehow, yet somehow more extreme at the same time because he kept speaking that way, never dropped it. Before, the voice had been a parody, a joke, a few seconds of fun. This one was more serious—it was a voice someone could use every day.

But the most shocking thing about Bodie was the way he was looking at him. His eyes were fixed on Doyle, and he had a kind of half-smile on his lips. His gaze was intent, predatory, and he wasn't just looking at Doyle's face. The man was practically undressing him with his eyes. Doyle swallowed and for the first time in his life wished that his jeans weren't quite so tight, although he had the feeling that Bodie would still be looking at him like that even if they weren't. Bodie was looking at him—the way he looked at one of his birds. The way he looked at someone he _wanted_.

Bodie's gaze finally made it up to Doyle's face. He met Doyle's eyes and, ever so slowly, he licked his lips and smiled. Bodie's charm was in full force, directed at him. His pulse pounded, and he felt a familiar rush of fear, with Bodie, unfamiliarly, as its source. It was strange, being wanted like that. Threatening. And—he realised, horrified—it was turning him on.

Hastily he turned away. It didn't mean anything. It couldn't mean anything. It was a physical reaction, a coincidence, that was all. And he couldn't run away from Bodie if he wanted to keep his cover. With an effort, Doyle turned back. Bodie was still staring. With all the courage he had, he summoned something that he sincerely hoped was a seductive smile, which Bodie returned, saying something to the man next to him.

Why hadn't he come over yet? What was he talking about, anyway? Doyle strained to hear their conversation, but hearing it didn't help, because the words didn't make any sense. Even more frustratingly, they seemed to be talking about him.

"Oh, vada the dolly riah on the omi ajax. Fantabulosa!" Bodie's voice.

"And the lallies." A distinctly middle-class accent from the redhead.

Bodie again: "Mmm. Bona lallies. And the box. Think she's t.b.h.?"

The darker man, in a rough, working-class voice. "Looks like trade to me."

Doyle wondered if he was being complimented.

"Oh, vada her dolly eke," said Bodie, longingly. "And her opals! Such dolly orbs! Girls, I think I'm in love!" He made this pronouncement loudly, flinging his arms wide.

Probably a compliment, then.

The redhead snorted, and for once was mostly comprehensible. "Haven't you learned your lesson about that yet, Bodie? Trade omis don't love you back."

"This one's different." Bodie sounded confident, with another lingering glance in Doyle's direction. "I can just feel it!"

"You said that last time too."

"Your funeral, mate," said the redhead's partner. 

"Wish your mother luck. _Au revoir, mes amis_ ," said Bodie, picking up his half-finished drink and beginning to walk toward Doyle. He practically sashayed. Doyle gave him another encouraging smile, for the hell of it.

When Bodie was but a few feet from Doyle, his path was suddenly interrupted by one of the hulking sailor types. Doyle watched with interest and a bit of trepidation. Would he have to compete for Bodie? He hadn't considered that possibility.

"Bodie!" cried the sailor, sounding very upset. What was this about, now? Was he an old enemy of Bodie's, maybe? He couldn't be, Doyle decided. Bodie hadn't been here in twenty years, and this bloke barely looked like he was twenty. He was huge, muscle-bound, well over six feet tall, with short dark hair and icy blue eyes. He would have been intimidating, if he hadn't looked so distraught.

Bodie gave a small shrug, essaying indifference. "Evening, Johnny."

"I thought you were with me!"

Another shrug. "One night only. Told you that last night."

"But, but—"

"I'm moving on. No hard feelings, eh?"

"Well, I never!"

Johnny turned on his heel, ready to flounce dramatically off, but then he noticed Doyle, and apparently divining Bodie's intentions, walked over to him.

"You'll want to watch out for him," Johnny said, giving Bodie a bitter glare.

Doyle tried to sound only mildly interested. "Why's that, then?"

"He'll break your fucking heart, that's why." Message delivered, Johnny stamped his way out.

Bodie finally arrived, looking not at all apologetic. "Well, hello there," he purred.

"What's with him?" Doyle chucked a thumb in the direction of the rapidly-receding Johnny.

"Oh, let's not talk about him," Bodie said, airily dismissing the man with a wave of his hand. "I'd rather talk about you."

Oh. Right. Supposed to be flirting.

Doyle gave Bodie his best wide-eyed ingénue smile, which wasn't actually much of a stretch in this situation. "What about me?"

"For starters, where have you come from? You weren't here last night. I'm sure I'd remember you." Bodie winked outrageously.

"I'm new," said Doyle. He held out his hand, which Bodie took almost languidly. "Ray."

"Ray," said Bodie, lingering over the name like he'd never met anyone with it before, which must have been some kind of bloody Olympic feat. "It suits you. My name's Bodie," he practically breathed out, finally releasing Doyle's hand.

"Nice to meet you, Bodie." He added another smile, but still had the suspicion he wasn't being flirtatious enough.

"So," Bodie asked, hand on his hip. "Are you thirsty? Can I buy you a drink?"

He pretended to consider it, gave Bodie a thorough look-over like the one Bodie'd given him, tried to look interested. "All right."

"Fantabulosa," Bodie said, that strange word again.

"I'll have—"

But Bodie'd already headed off to the bar. Doyle guessed he'd have whatever Bodie wanted him to have. Which, knowing Bodie's tastes, was likely to be an appalling fruit-based concoction. Very fucking funny, mate.

Bodie had been right; Doyle didn't like his serious camp. He'd spent the whole conversation thus far half-waiting for Bodie to drop it and be himself again. Clearly, Bodie wasn't going to, and he knew it. Didn't really expect him to. But this flirtatious stranger with the half-lidded eyes wasn't any Bodie he knew, and it was worrying him. He was almost afraid of this man. Which was a problem, because he was supposed to fall in love with him. Or have an affair with him. One of the two.

Bodie returned and handed him a glass of something vaguely yellow. Doyle took a sip. Rum and pineapple juice. Brilliant. The sod was enjoying doing this when Doyle couldn't call him on it, wasn't he?

"Good?" Bodie asked, brightly. Bastard.

"Mmm," Doyle said, taking another sip. It actually wasn't that bad. Maybe that was the rum talking already.

"So, Ray," Bodie was now leaning against the wall next to him, with him, almost cuddling up to him. "What brings you to our lovely ship?"

"Just coming home from holiday," Doyle said.

"Oh? What do you do?"

"Civil servant," he said, just like he'd told everyone else, and there wasn't even a flicker in Bodie's eyes, no recognition of their old joke. Damn it, Bodie was _good_.

"Nice work if you can get it. Is your wife here too?" Awfully forward, wasn't he?

Doyle shook his head. "Never married, I'm afraid." He forced a smile, trying to convey that he was available.

"Oh," Bodie said, and he made it sound tragic. "You must be lonely."

Doyle took another sip. The funny thing was, he was feeling a bit lonely. "Yeah, I suppose."

He felt a light touch against his waist, the brush of an arm behind his back against the wall, and despite himself, he stiffened, muscles rigid. Bodie was now next to him, very close, arm stretched behind him, and his extended fingers began to lightly, ever so gently stroke Doyle's ribs. 

Doyle tried to smile again, but he had a feeling it came out more like a grimace, a rictus. This was just Bodie. Only Bodie. His partner. His best mate. But this wasn't Bodie, it was a stranger, wearing Bodie's body, with designs on him —

"You're terrified," a voice breathed into his ear, almost too softly to be heard, all breath, and oh God, thank God, it was Bodie's voice again, Bodie's real voice. " _Relax_ , sunshine. You're supposed to be having fun. It's just me, eh?"

Doyle whipped his head around, but saw only the darkened eyes of a stranger, very close now, and another of those predatory grins. He shut his eyes, swigged his cocktail, and, through sheer force of will, relaxed the muscles of his back. There.

Bodie's hand was still moving lightly, back and forth, against his side. If he didn't think about it too much, it actually felt all right. Reassuring. Relaxing. Certainly not arousing, he told himself. Though if it were, would that really be so bad? It was just touching. Surely touching was just touching; could feel nice no matter who was doing it, right?

"Mmm," Doyle said, not really paying attention to the words tumbling out of his mouth. "You've got nice hands."

Christ, there must have been more rum in the drink than he'd thought.

A throaty laugh. "If you're interested, ducky, I'll show you what else I can do with my hands..."

Doyle gave him a speculative glance. "I might be."

"Not just hands, you know. Lots of things."

"Mmm," Doyle said again, feigning interest.

"Where are you staying?"

"405. First-class," he paused for emphasis. "Deluxe."

"Oh, you're in one of my rooms!" Bodie breathed. "In that case, I'd definitely recommend your place over mine."

Doyle turned, half-facing Bodie, and let himself tremble a little. It was, of course, easy. "I'm rather new to this, you know." Bodie's cover had better be into the scared virgin type; there was no way Doyle could play it any other way. 

Bodie's hand was now pressing against his lower back, supporting him. "You're doing well so far." It was still his camp voice, of course, but Doyle felt better taking it as a compliment on his performance.

"I am very lonely, you know," Doyle said. "What if I'm still lonely tomorrow night?"

"Maybe you won't be." A smile. "Let's see how it goes tonight."

Doyle drained the rest of his drink. "Shall we?"

"Whenever you're ready, ducky."

On their way out, Bodie gave a thumbs-up to the two men he'd been talking to. They looked politely tolerant, the way you do when you think your friends are making horrible mistakes.

* * *

They walked together through the halls to Doyle's cabin. Bodie hadn't touched him since they'd been in the bar, though he was walking very close—as close as he ever did, Doyle tried to tell himself—and he was constantly, uncomfortably aware of Bodie's body in relation to his. The length of his stride. The way his swinging hand almost, almost came close enough to touch Doyle's at every step. The quick, excited inhalations of breath. The way he was walking, practically bouncing on his feet. The confident, anticipatory smile. He was acting like—well, he was acting exactly like someone who thought he was about to have a very good time. A standing ovation for Bodie. If he got bored with CI5, the bloke should really consider LAMDA.

When they finally arrived at Doyle's door, he began to feel a palpable sense of relief. They would go inside, and then Bodie would be himself again, and everything would be normal, or as close to normal as they could manage.

"Here we are," Doyle said unnecessarily. "Home sweet home. You've probably got a key, haven't you?"

Bodie was lounging against the bulkhead, and Doyle could have sworn he was copying his own patented pose. He smiled a wide, lazy smile. "I think I'll let you do the honours, ducky."

Doyle patted himself down for his keys, aware that Bodie was watching every movement with that same enthralled grin. Just wanted to watch him feel himself up, did he? He wiggled his hips a little. Why not give him a show? It was only Bodie, after all.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bodie's jaw work as he swallowed. "Very nice."

"Got it," Doyle said, fingers closing on the key.

"Can't imagine you often lose track of things in your pockets with jeans like that," came the approving response, as Doyle opened the door and motioned Bodie inside.

Bodie switched on the light. "Lovely place you've got, ducky." He was still camping; he hadn't dropped it. What was going on? Doyle began to worry. Where was the real Bodie? Oh God, he wasn't going to stop, Doyle'd have to deal with this, this _stranger_ for the next seven days. His stomach quivered.

Then Bodie picked up a lamp, flipped it upside down to peer interestedly as the base, and suddenly Doyle understood. He wasn't going to drop the cover until he knew there were no bugs, and Doyle hadn't checked since yesterday morning. Not much point in checking since, because he hadn't been doing anything potentially incriminating. Until, of course, right now.

"There's an even nicer lamp like that over in the bedroom," he said, motioning Bodie in the direction of the curtain separating the two areas. "Why don't you go look?"

"Ooh," observed Bodie, as he trotted off to see. "Don't mind if I do."

Moving as quickly as he could, Doyle checked the rest of the sitting area. The sliding noises he could hear from the rest of the cabin told him Bodie was checking the bathroom and the bedroom, and he moved the desk back with an air of finality as the noises from Bodie's direction finally stopped.

"All clear over here," Doyle called out. "You?"

"Clear," Bodie called back, and it was his real voice again. The sound of it made Doyle smile.

Doyle came around the curtain to see Bodie collapsing, falling backwards to sprawl over his bed, on top of the covers. It had probably been a very long couple of days for him, poor sod.

For his part, he sat down on the floor, back against the wall, next to the bed Bodie occupied. He stretched his legs out, releasing tension.

"What _was_ that, Bodie?"

He'd been expecting Bodie to say "what was what," to pretend that he didn't know. Instead Bodie lolled his head toward him, opened one eye, narrowly, and then closed it. "That was me being convincing. We talked about it already." His voice was slurred, sleepy.

"But—" Okay. Deep breath. Start again. "So," he said, trying to sound as if this were all completely normal, "how are you?"

"Bleeding knackered," Bodie mumbled. This time he didn't even open his eyes. 

"Can see that." He poked Bodie's outstretched hand, gently. _Talk to me, Bodie_ , he wanted to say. _Say something so I know it's you_. But of course, he didn't. "What about the op?"

Bodie groaned and jerked his hand away. "Ten minutes," he said, half of his face muffled by the pillow. "Give me ten fucking minutes of shut-eye, and I'll tell you anything you want to know."

Without even waiting for a reply, he was out like a light, chest rising and falling in the familiar slow rhythm of a sleeper. That was Bodie for you. Sleep anywhere, he would. It probably helped that the bed was actually quite comfortable. First class had its advantages.

The usual cliché, of course, would be that sleep took years off him, erased his worries. But it wasn't really true for Bodie, was it? Doyle thought as he studied his partner's sleeping face. He hardly ever actually looked _worried_ , so there wasn't too much that sleep could do for him. Facing down mad gunmen, disarming explosives—he always looked so bloody in control. Like nothing could scare him. Except this mission. This one scared Bodie, and Doyle wasn't exactly sure why. He knew why it scared _him_ , of course, but Bodie ought to be different. Exempt.

And the bit about sleep making him look like a child was a lie too. Even asleep, Bodie still looked exhausted, so far behind on his sleep that the first ten hours probably wouldn't count toward making him feel better and would instead go to settle up the old scores, much less ten minutes. What had he been doing?

Staring at Bodie for ten minutes was probably not the best use of his time. Doyle rose as silently as possible, found his book, and headed for the settee. When he looked up from the end of chapter five, he saw that it had in fact been twenty minutes. He was sure Bodie wouldn't mind the extra nap; he'd probably subconsciously done it on purpose, or some such nonsense.

He returned to his place at the side of the bed and considered Bodie. The past twenty minutes didn't seem to have made the slightest dent in his exhaustion; had they world enough and time, Doyle would have happily let him sleep the night. But they didn't. There was a job to do, and they could sleep when it was all over. This was how he rationalised it to himself, anyway, because he still felt a pang of guilt as he reached out to wake Bodie.

"Oi, mate," Doyle said, touching Bodie's shoulder. "Wake up."

There was an instant reaction, then, as Bodie reached up to knock his hand away and, in one smooth motion, slid his hand back to his side, feeling for the gun he didn't have, before he finally opened his eyes and recognised Doyle. Hair-trigger reflexes saved lives, Doyle knew, and they had probably saved Bodie's life more than once, but—he wasn't usually _that_ twitchy.

"Sorry." Bodie muttered a belated apology, swinging himself upright on the bed and looking down at him. "Startled me. But that was never ten minutes."

"Twenty, actually. Looked like you needed the sleep." _Like you still need the sleep_ , he didn't say.

"Shit," Bodie mumbled, rubbing at his eyes. "Okay. I'm awake. The op. Right. How's it going?" 

"I've met a fair few people," Doyle began, "But, to be honest, I can't see any of them being our man." He ticked off the people on his fingers. "There's Alice and William from dinner. He's in finance, he said, and if I had to pick any of them right now he'd be it. Huge man. Very quiet. Could be up to anything."

Bodie nodded thoughtfully. "Could be. Can't rule him out either way." He could tell that Bodie's head had cleared already, because here he was analysing the situation. Doyle was bizarrely relieved to see the old Bodie back again, after the evening.

"There's Michael. Didn't catch his last name. He invited me to that bar of yours. Don't really know much about him except that he clearly fancies my arse." He sat back and waited to see if Bodie would defend his arse. The old Bodie might have done; the new one would probably just leer.

Instead, he got neither; Bodie smiled and raised an eyebrow at him. "Haven't you had enough compliments already?"

"Prat," Doyle retorted, reaching out for a pillow from the bed, thumping Bodie in the back with it.

"Pillock." Bodie grabbed the pillow away, tossed it at his head.

They grinned at each other.

"I missed you," Doyle said, feeling ridiculous.

"You've been with me all evening," Bodie pointed out, which was sort of true, and yet not.

"Yeah, but that wasn't really you, was it?"

Bodie's face was shadowed, all of a sudden. He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something and thought better of it, strange behaviour from a bloke who in most other circumstances appeared to say whatever popped into his head. Something else they weren't going to talk about.

"So maybe this Michael bloke, maybe not," Bodie said, finally, back to the op. "You'll have to keep an eye on him too. Next?"

"David Smith," said Doyle, lacing his hands behind his head as he leaned against the wall. "Speaking of pillocks."

"Now that's an alias if I ever heard one."

"I know," Doyle agreed. "Problem is, we only think that because there _are_ a lot of David Smiths in the world. Who's to say he didn't come by his honestly?"

"Fair enough. But he's a pillock?"

"Is he ever! Dullest bloke I've ever met. Always got his camera with him. Takes photos of the whole ship, he says—" Doyle stopped. When he put it like that, it did sound sort of fishy.

Bodie looked interested. "That's promising. With that as a cover, he'd probably have access to places he shouldn't, no problem."

"He's not one of your rooms, is he?" Doyle asked, hopefully. "You can get in, toss the place—"

But Bodie was shaking his head. "No. I can probably swing it, later, but it'd look a bit suspicious. Best to wait until we're sure for that. No, for this one you're on your own."

"Brilliant," said Doyle, disconsolately. "Well, he's invited me round to—"

"—look at his etchings?" Bodie sniggered.

"Shut up. His photographs, if you must know." Doyle glared at him. "And somehow I don't think he's the type. Two days here and I can already tell when I'm being cruised, thanks."

"Okay." Bodie was all business again. "So you could focus on him, first. Unless there are other possibilities...?"

"None worth mentioning. Oh!" Doyle suddenly remembered Gladys. "There was that bird."

Now Bodie looked annoyed. "Raymond, old son, what did we say about birds?"

"Her name's _Gladys_ ," Doyle breathed in the same tone Bodie had used to say his name earlier. "I met her playing shuffleboard. She has so many interesting stories. And she's seventy-five if she's a day, so stop staring at me like that."

A burst of delighted laughter. "Well, that's all right, then. Hang on," he said. "Gladys Evans? Big floppy hats?"

"That's the one," Doyle confirmed.

"She's one of mine. Sweet old lady. Likes to pat my face and call me 'dearie,'" Bodie said in a voice full of aggrieved suffering.

Doyle laughed. "You should play shuffleboard with her."

Bodie looked rueful. "I wish. No time for a life of leisure. Have you seen my job, mate?"

"I see how you look now."

"'Hard' doesn't begin to cover it." He still looked exhausted.

"So," Doyle prompted. "Your turn. What have you found?"

"Not much."

He waited for Bodie to go on. No response. "I've found all these people, and you say 'not much'?"

"It's a little more complicated than your side of it," Bodie finally said.

What kind of an excuse was that? "Well, how about those old friends of yours, from the bar? The redhead and the other one."

"Hull and Rutter?" Bodie sounded a bit insulted that Doyle had mentioned them. "They're two of my bunkmates. And it's not them, unless they've been suborned, which is very unlikely. A lot of the others are out for similar reasons. So there's really only a small number of people I'll be looking at, and I don't know who they all are yet."

Doyle frowned. "I don't understand."

"The assassin hasn't been on this ship since the beginning of time, right? He only just got here."

"All right..."

"So it's not going to be people who've been here for thirty years like those two. You don't just turn into an assassin. I'm looking for the people who have only just arrived here, especially the ones no one can vouch for from other ships."

"Makes sense."

"Right. And I've got a list from the Cow—had a list, rather, I memorised it—of the recent crew, so my job is to go through the list without seeming too nosy, and from there figure out who merits a closer look."

"I'm beginning to see the problem." Doyle nodded. "Any leads?"

"The really interesting bloke is the new purser," Bodie said. "He's so new he wasn't even on the list. Signed on at Cape Town, and as far as I know no one knows a thing about him."

Doyle's interest was piqued. "The file doesn't rule that out, right? I mean, the source didn't say he had to already be here before we got here; he just has to be on the boat before we reach home."

"'S how I understand it."

"You should look at him more closely, then."

"I was planning on it." Bodie grinned at him. "So that's it for my report; maybe we'll get that pay rise after all, eh?"

"Don't count on it."

Doyle felt himself relaxing still further. A look passed between them, a smile in silence. Bodie shifted uncomfortably on the bed. "I don't like this op."

"I know you don't."

"Not that. I meant, we have no backup plan." He looked discomfited. "Suppose we slip, or something happens, and whoever it is finds out we're watching him. I don't want to deal with an assassin. I'm unarmed."

It was odd. He wasn't usually that pessimistic. Was the job finally getting to him? Doyle only hoped he could hold out until after this one, because now would be a very bad time, since they were alone out here. Just the two of them until they docked in Southampton. At least he could reassure Bodie on this point. He stood up, went to the safe.

"Ah, but I have a backup plan." He gave Bodie a triumphant look.

Bodie's mouth parted slightly, enthralled, as Doyle pulled the familiar cases out of the safe. "You're not telling me you—"

"That's what I'm telling you," Doyle replied, handing over one of the guns.

A delighted grin spread across Bodie's face as he unlocked the case to gaze upon the gun. "This is— well, it's illegal, that's what it is! And you an ex-copper." Bodie sounded thrilled, and Doyle knew it had been worth it.

"I won't tell if you won't."

"Cross my heart and hope to die," Bodie said under his breath, reverently lifting the gun out of its case. "You even brought your Christmas pressie."

Doyle shuffled his feet on the carpet, suddenly embarrassed by the praise. "Though you'd appreciate it."

Bodie set the gun back down and smiled a happy lopsided smile. Doyle felt a surge of warmth. "Did I ever tell you how much I love you?"

"Thought that was what you were trying to tell me earlier," Doyle said uneasily, and he meant to make it sound like a joke, but it didn't quite happen.

There was a serious look then, as Bodie realised what he'd said. He sighed, then said, "No, that was just lust. Supposed to be, anyway. I thought you of all people should be able to tell the difference."

Him of all people? What did he mean by that?

"Hey." A thought occurred to him, as he considered the earlier events. "So what was that bloke's problem, the one at the bar?"

Bodie sat up straighter, eyes narrowed. A pause. "Don't think he liked my hair." His tone was just a bit too flippant.

"Bodie."

"I slept with him last night." Bodie glared at him, a challenge. Daring him to react. "He was hoping for something more long-term."

Helplessly, Doyle began to laugh. "You didn't—"

"I'm not joking." Bodie's eyes were steel.

"Fucking hell." Doyle's mouth was suddenly dry, and he had the strangest feeling that he'd never really grasped until right now what Bodie'd meant when he said he was going undercover as a gay bloke. "Did you really need to do that to keep your cover?"

Bodie dropped his eyes, instead addressing his serious reply to the gun sitting on the bed. "Need to? Not really. But being willing to does help the cover, and now he'll go round telling his mates about me. And he was there, reasonably good-looking, he offered, and there wasn't much better to do, was there?"

A confused mix of emotions tumbled through Doyle, outrage and shock predominating. "But— _why_?"

Bodie finally raised his eyes again. "For Christ's sake, Ray, don't look at me like that." His eyes were raw, pained. Hurt. "I'm not a fucking leper. And it's not like I never told you before."

"You didn't." Doyle was positive he would have remembered. You wouldn't forget a thing like that, if your mate had told you he was—he was—Doyle's mind resisted labelling Bodie. He cast his mind frantically back through the years. No, no, he was sure Bodie had never said.

"I did," Bodie said, indignant. "You remember, when was it, six years ago? After that party. Anson's birthday, with the stripper?"

Oh. That. They'd had more than enough to drink, and somehow they'd got on the subject, and Bodie had said... Bodie had told him... Doyle frowned. "I thought you meant, you know, in Africa. In the bush, you know, when there were no women around."

"I can't help what you thought." He sounded almost regretful. "I thought you knew."

"Not a clue." Doyle gave a short, sharp laugh.

"Well, just so we're clear. I have been known to go with men. And not just in the jungle." Bodie seemed to be picking his words carefully, and there was no way Doyle was asking about that.

"Not since I've known you, though?" It shouldn't have been important, but Doyle would have felt even worse if Bodie'd been picking up a new bloke in the pub every night and he'd somehow remained oblivious.

"No." A long pause. Bodie's expression was perfectly still. "Not since you've known me."

"All right." He took a deep breath. _Don't make a big deal of it. You've already hurt him enough_. Bodie was still Bodie, right? His best mate. Didn't change anything. It didn't. "Doesn't seem fair, though," he said, lifting his head and grinning.

Bodie blinked, startled. "Fair?"

"That I can't have anyone and here you are boffing half the sailors."

Bodie laughed harder than the remark warranted. "No one said you had to be celibate. Far as I'm concerned you can have any man aboard who'll have you. I recommend the captain."

"Now you tell me." Doyle laughed. "If only I'd known that last night, when I was sitting here feeling sorry for meself, and you were out fucking the cabin boy."

"Deck hand, actually." Bodie coughed discreetly. "And he was fucking me."

It really wasn't any more off-colour than some of the stuff Bodie said about his birds, but Doyle wished he hadn't said it. Now all he could picture was Bodie being covered, held down, skin pale, pressed against some anonymous man's bunk belowdecks. How could he? God. "You really like that kind of thing?"

Bodie shrugged. "Be a bloody stupid thing to do if I didn't like it, wouldn't it?"

"Suppose so," Doyle agreed. But, really, how could any man like doing... that? How could Bodie?

"You're going to tell me you never suspected that either, yeah?" Bodie snorted. "Great big butch thing like me." He waved a wrist, limply, a parody of his earlier campiness.

"Well, I didn't," Doyle defended himself. "How should I know?" Couldn't they just stop talking about it? Then he could stop thinking about Bodie like that...

"I don't know."

They regarded each other in silence. Doyle promptly shattered the solemnity by lobbing the neglected pillow at Bodie's head. He had no intention of letting anything change between them.

Bodie made what ought to have been a clever move, duck and cover, but in execution ended up as him toppling off the other side of the bed. Doyle heard him chuckle.

"Right." Bodie stood up, brushed himself off. "Think I'd better be getting to my bunk. Did I mention it's like sleeping on a rock? Bloody medieval torture device."

"Do you want to sleep here?" Doyle extended a hand, gesturing back towards the bed. "I can take the couch."

Bodie looked sorely tempted at the offer, then shook his head. "Ta, but not tonight. I hardly think I know you well enough for that, Mr Doyle!" He batted his eyelashes.

"Berk." Doyle jumped to his feet. "I mean, let me show you to the door." He brushed past the curtain, pulled the outside door open in a manner he thought was gentlemanly enough, and inclined his head as Bodie stepped out. "Night, Bodie. See you tomorrow."

In the corridor, Bodie turned and grinned at him. "Good night, sweetheart." It was total camp, again, but this time it didn't scare him—he could see Bodie underneath it all, now that he knew where to look.

Doyle blew him a kiss. If it was a game, he could play too.

Bodie let out a ripple of laughter and shimmied his hips at him all the way down the corridor, until Doyle couldn't see him any more.


	4. Chapter 4

The light shining on his face told Doyle that he'd awoken later than he had planned, which probably meant he'd be too late to catch David Smith at breakfast. Not that he was particularly sorry, but it did mean he would have to revise his investigative plans for the day.

The later breakfast turned out to be attended by an entirely different set of people and furthermore was almost entirely full. David, thankfully, was not among the attendees. Across the room, Gladys, today in a bright red hat, waved at him from a crowd of shuffleboard players. Doyle waved back and headed to one of the few available seats, next to a bearded, middle-aged man and a girl to his left. She was almost doubled-over; her hair was long enough that it brushed against the table. She didn't even look at Doyle as he sat down.

After breakfast arrived, Doyle decided to test the waters.

"Hello."

"Good morning," the man returned, companionably. The girl said nothing.

"I'm Ray," Doyle offered, between bites of sausage.

"Chris," the man said, and nudged the girl next to him. "This is my daughter Maria. Say hello, Maria."

Maria finally looked up, sullenly. "Hello," she spat in Doyle's direction, not making eye contact. This must be the girl Gladys had told him about. She looked older than he would've thought from her behaviour, maybe twenty. Too old for that teenage attitude, certainly. Curiouser and curiouser.

The man shrugged, almost apologetically. "It's been a trying time for us lately."

"Oh?" Doyle asked, but the man did not elaborate, beginning instead to eat his meal in silence. So much for his spy work.

If they weren't going to answer his nosy questions, he'd just have to wait and see. Doyle dismissed the man as uninteresting, but the girl...? It wasn't just that she was more angry than a young woman usually was, but she kept lifting her head to look around the room when she thought Doyle wasn't watching, and her eyes scanned the room quickly, almost professionally. The minute Doyle turned his head, as if to look at her, she immediately dropped back to the sad look. A cover? Could be.

She ate her food quickly, not picking at it. It reminded him of Bodie, filling his face quickly and methodically on stakeouts; he said he'd picked the habit up in Africa. It was the way someone ate who'd spent years trying to eat quickly in groups, under pressure, perhaps someone who didn't know where their next meal was coming from.

She _was_ on the young side to be an assassin, but stranger things had happened. There was the question of her father, too—was he part of her cover as well? Could be. And for someone who didn't speak much, silence could cover a multitude of sins. Like a Russian accent perhaps?

Having spent the meal lost in thought, he hadn't noticed his food was gone before his fork scraped against the empty plate. She was a ridiculous person to suspect; he was getting paranoid. But still. She could be the one, couldn't she? And wasn't "Maria" a Russian name?

"Nice meeting you," Doyle said, excusing himself, and Chris nodded at him as he left.

Maria looked up again as he left, and this time met his eyes. Her eyes were large, brown, and sad. Definitely one to watch.

* * *

His room had been cleaned again. This time he went straight for the pile of clean towels, throwing them in disarray across the bed. Another scrap of paper fell out, and Doyle snatched it up and opened it.

This note was much more neatly written than yesterday's. Bodie must have had more time.

_Darling,_  
 _Last night was the most incredible night of my life. I need to see you again. Tonight I'd like to introduce you to the family. I'll pick you up at nine. I'm sure they'll absolutely adore you!_  
 _Yours,_  
 _B_

Maybe this job wasn't going to be all that bad.

Who was this family, though? Bodie's old friends? He could handle that.

* * *

Doyle decided to spend the rest of the morning on a deck chair. In the interests of the mission, of course. The chair he'd had the day before was available, and he could peek discreetly over the top of his book, keep an eye out for any suspicious behaviour.

Half an hour passed with agonizing slowness, and even though the deck was crowded, he didn't see anything in the least suspicious. There were a few good looking birds, but mostly middle-aged people passed by, talking in low voices about their holidays. Boring.

He put his book down and leaned farther back in his chair. Doyle inspected his arms critically. At least he was getting a good tan.

Behind him he heard a low, quiet whistle, and a shadow fell over him. He turned, half-pushed himself out of the chair, and saw Bodie, outlined by the sun. The corners of his mouth were curved in an appreciative smile.

"There you are," Bodie said, camp voice again. "Ooh, rather a lot of you," he added in an undertone. He supposed this was Bodie's discreet camp.

"Best bits aren't for public view."

"Such a gentleman." Bodie grinned.

Doyle grinned back at him, making it a little awkward, shy. They were only supposed to have known each other since yesterday, after all. He made a show of looking Bodie, still dressed in his work clothes, up and down.

"I do like a man in uniform," he said, low, and winked at Bodie. "Or out of uniform, if you'll remember." He was actually having fun. Lying about the wonderful night they'd had was nothing if not entertaining.

A lazy, licentious smile. "You got my letter?" And it had been a perfectly in-character note, so Bodie's cover ought to be able to own up to it.

"And I would be pleased to accept your invitation," Doyle said, and watched as a look of hope came into Bodie's eyes. Very convincing. "But I thought you said it would be later. What can I do for you now?"

"Oh, _lots_ of things," Bodie purred, stepping closer and reaching out, almost touching his arm. Ah, so the flirting was going to be more than just words now, was it?

Doyle sat up, looked several times in either direction. It was what he would do if he wanted to be sure that there were no watchers, but he was pleased to see a few sailors, further down the deck, pointedly staring away as he looked at them. They were being observed. Good. Good for their cover.

He shifted his weight and folded his free arm across his chest, capturing Bodie's hand and pinning it to his shoulder. Bodie was cooler than he was; of course, Bodie hadn't been lying in the sun all morning. Doyle stroked his fingers across Bodie's palm, gently, the way you did with someone you were only just getting used to, when you were trying to figure out where the boundaries were, where you wanted to set them.

What the hell, why not? He slid his fingers down to Bodie's wrist, picked it up, and raised Bodie's hand to his face, brushing the lightest of kisses along the back of Bodie's hand. Blech, his skin tasted like cleaning products. He'd probably been scrubbing cabins all morning.

In his grip, Bodie's hand trembled a little, and he looked up to see the mask slip again. An expression he couldn't quite identify moved into Bodie's eyes, almost too quickly to see, and then out again, covered up. Hadn't expected that, had he? Two could play at this. All part of flirting. It was what Bodie had said they should do, wasn't it? Flirting.

"Thought you were meant to be working now," he said, breathing against Bodie's hand.

"I am working," Bodie said, whispering back. "Cleaning. Lots of empty rooms. With lots of empty beds. By myself." He raised an eyebrow and looked almost alluring. Doyle was briefly grateful he wasn't really having this affair with Bodie; with an appetite like that, they'd probably have found themselves caught in flagrante delicto in some guest's bed before long. 

He stroked the inside of Bodie's wrist. His skin was surprisingly soft over the bumpy tendons. "Lonely, are you?"

Bodie swallowed before he spoke, and his voice was rough, hardly campy at all. "You might say that."

"I'd be happy to join you."

An almost imperceptible nod, and then Bodie leaned back, pulling him up by the hand. Doyle went with it, and then he was on his feet, dropping Bodie's hand to pull his shirt back on, stuffing the forgotten paperback in his pocket.

From afar, he could see the group of sailors smirking at each other as he followed Bodie away, toward the cabins.

* * *

Bodie pulled the heavy trolley inside and slammed the door solidly behind them. Doyle fancied he could hear the "Cleaning" sign rattling on the outside doorknob. This room was smaller than his. No settee, no flowers, no safe. Probably regular first class. And it was probably all right to speak openly—if any room was bugged, it'd be his own.

He threw a sidelong glance at Bodie, who, moving efficiently, had come around and started to strip the sheets from the bed. "Some cover, eh? You think your friends will buy it?"

A chuckle, confident. "They will. It's not as if it doesn't happen." It was Bodie's real voice again.

Doyle knelt and started rifling through the dresser drawers. "Liked your letter."

"Did you?"

"Very touching." Something soft hit him in the head. "Oi. Stop throwing pillows. What'll the guests think of their room?"

"Don't mock my feelings, sunshine. Hate to have to break up with you."

He threw the pillow back. Nothing in the dresser. Doyle shifted it to peer behind it. Nothing there either. "Suppose you'd miss the nights of passion, eh?"

"And the true love." Bodie gave him a perfectly charming smile as Doyle passed him, heading to check the bathroom. "Where's your emotional involvement, duckie?"

"Where's yours? You don't even fall in love with birds, mate." He checked behind the shower curtain and started pulling open the bathroom cabinets. Empty.

A long, almost thoughtful pause, then silence broken by the sound of hoovering. After he heard it switch off, he came back out of the bathroom, and Bodie eyed him. 

"My friends know I wouldn't do this for any bit of rough trade, unfortunately. This sneaking around is pretty much for idiots in love, people who care who they're fucking."

"Oh."

So he'd actually have to pretend to be falling in love with Bodie. It wasn't what Bodie had promised at the beginning, and he felt a little uneasy that the rules were changing. He'd thought this was just supposed to be a, well, sex thing. And how would he do this, anyway? How did men fall in love? It probably wasn't like birds; Bodie probably didn't want flowers. Though he did like chocolate. That wasn't a secret. But was that what men did? The space in his brain was a hazy blank where the knowledge wasn't. How should he know? He wasn't gay.

Bodie seemed to be making a careful study of his face. "Is that going to be a problem for you?"

"No." Doyle met his eyes, tried to look confident, then realised that he couldn't put on a front with Bodie. "I don't know. If it's what's got to be done, I'll do it, but I'm a bit out of my depth here."

"It'll be okay." Bodie gazed back at him, strangely reassuring. "Do what I do. I won't hurt you. Trust me."

"I trust you," Doyle said. He trusted Bodie with his life every day. Anything less was minor in comparison.

"It'll just be a bit more serious flirting. Just like birds." Then Bodie grinned at him. "Don't worry, no one'll be getting pregnant. Not even any kissing behind the bike shed. I can behave myself."

"All right." He relaxed again. It was just words. He wouldn't—wouldn't even have to—he wrenched his mind away from the unappealing train of thought. "So whose room is this? Looks clean to me."

"I did a very good job, didn't I?" Bodie asked, deliberately misinterpreting.

Doyle rolled his eyes.

Bodie frowned, checked the sheet lying on his trolley. "Charles and Edna Norton. Have you met them?"

Doyle thought about it. "No."

"Me neither. They've never been in when I'm cleaning, and they've never rung for anything."

"Well, whoever they are, their room is free of suspicious items, wouldn't you say?" 

"I would. Where next?"

Bodie gave the top of the dresser a swipe with a rag and glanced at the sheet again. "418, down the hall. Michael Cuthbert. Him, I've met. Keeps hitting on me."

There were probably a lot of people who fit that description, but it could be the same bloke. "Tall, dark hair, muscular?"

"Mmm-hmm. Always on his way to and from the pool, parading around in the smallest swimming trunks you've seen."

"They're red," Doyle added.

"I see you've also made his acquaintance."

Doyle pulled a face. "I think he would have liked to get to know me better too. Surprised you didn't take him up on it, though." If Bodie was willing to sleep with that sailor, he might have had other men for his cover —

"Nah, not my type. Told him I was spoken for." 

He chose not to address that. "Well, last night you said 'maybe' about his chances of being our man, so here's our opportunity, eh?"

Bodie nodded and opened the cabin door to push the trolley out.

* * *

Michael's cabin was the same size as the previous one. Nothing particularly out of the ordinary struck Doyle. After all, they were only looking for one assassin—what were the chances he'd be it? It was going to be difficult to identify their man in time. 

"So if you've been here before," Doyle asked, trying not to let hopelessness overwhelm him, "why didn't you search the room then?"

Bodie shrugged at him as if the answer were obvious. "He was here then. I just dropped off fresh towels."

"Oh." Doyle went off to check the bathroom again. Nothing interesting, other than a generous supply of condoms stuffed into one drawer. He felt a rush of embarrassment. Bodie'd probably found his stash, when he'd checked for bugs last night. "Nothing in here," he mumbled.

"Nothing here either—hang on. Come have a look at this, Ray."

Bodie was standing at the side of the bed. The sheets were in a pile, but there was something sticking out at the edge of the bed, under the box spring. Something small—a pile of papers.

"What is that?"

"That's what I want to know. Give us a hand, will you?"

Doyle came around to the other side and got a good grip on the bed frame. "All right. On three. One, two—"

They heaved together, and carefully, straining, managed to put the bed down a foot closer to Doyle.

He heard Bodie groan. "Sorry about the trouble, mate."

"It's not Soviet assassination plans, I gather?" Doyle moved back to see what they'd found.

Bodie picked up the papers, gingerly. They were printed pages—a magazine? As he flipped through them Doyle saw flashes of gleaming skin, posed limbs, bulging, masculine muscles. "No, I think he's just got a very pleasant hobby."

What? What kind of magazine was—Oh. "Well, we had to check, didn't we?"

"Shame it wasn't that easy." He dropped the magazine back where it had come from. "I'm going to wash my hands now."

Doyle imagined three hundred rooms, all the same. The file had said they suspected the assassin was first class, but what if they'd been wrong about even that? "Bodie, this is never going to work—"

"Shh." Bodie silenced him, suddenly intent. "Someone's coming."

Outside, he could hear footsteps, and a voice, just outside the door. "Oi, Bodie, you in this one?" The tones were rough, with a bit of the same camp Bodie'd been using. It was one of the workers, then, which was better than the occupant, but Doyle still didn't want to get caught by anyone.

Their eyes met in terror, and Bodie motioned in the direction of the bathroom.

Doyle dived for it and had barely got the door shut before he heard the squeak of the cabin door opening.

"I've found you." The stranger's voice was smug.

"What do you want now, Jackson?" Bodie'd put the camp back on, and was managing to sound a little annoyed.

"Oh, nothing in particular. What's that?" 

A ruffling sound. The magazine.

Bodie sounded defensive. "That was there when I got here."

"Of course it was." An airy dismissal from—Jackson, Bodie had called him.

A pause. "What do you _want_?" Anger now.

"I thought I saw you coming in here with an omi. Naughty, naughty." What was that word? Was it him?

"And if I had, you'd have wanted a bit of fun?" Was Bodie proposing or denying the threesome? He couldn't really tell.

"Three's a crowd." A titter. "No, your dear roommates said you'd taken a shine to this omi last night, only you didn't bring him back with you. And you did always have such exquisite taste, so I wanted to admire him for myself."

The sound of footsteps seemed to be coming closer to the bathroom.

"Don't think he'd be interested in you."

A derisive snort. "What have you got that I haven't?"

"Darling," and it was Bodie's mean camp, "we'd be here all day if I answered that. But really," here he started to sound—desperate?—"he's not an omi-palone, he's hardly even bibi. He's t.b.h., but barely. Didn't seem to me like he wanted to do a turn with the whole bleeding ship." 

Was that Bodie trying to defend him? He didn't understand the words, but the tone was clear enough. Bodie didn't need to bother. He could take care of himself. 

"Ohh." A noise of comprehension. "He still had his cherry, did he? Didn't know you went for virgins." Doyle understood _that_ perfectly well.

A dirty understanding chuckle from Bodie. "He did before last night." Doyle admired the statement. It was technically true. He hadn't slept with Bodie before last night. Or after. Or during.

"What's the colour of his eyes?" Just what kind of question was that, Doyle wondered. How could his eye colour be important?

"Nanti that." Whatever it meant, Bodie didn't seem to want to talk about it.

"Sharda. Be that way. Well, I know better than to poach." A sigh of regret that he could actually hear. The voice was very close now. "I do wonder, though, why you've kept this door closed—"

The bathroom door abruptly swung open, and Doyle was face to—well, almost face—with a very short, slender blond man.

Behind him, Doyle could see Bodie, sheepish apology written all over his face. "Jackson, this is Ray. Ray, this is Fred Jackson. One of my old—" a very long pause— "friends."

"Nice to meet you," Doyle said, shifting nervously from foot to foot.

Jackson eyed him lecherously. "Very nice. Your taste is as impeccable as ever, Bodie."

"I think I'll be going now." Doyle edged out of the bathroom without ever actually touching the man, thank God, and walked quickly past Bodie, who still looked mortified.

"Ray—"

"See you tonight, Bodie," he said without looking back as he headed out the door.

Searching the rooms together, even if there weren't been that many, clearly wasn't a good idea. They'd have to think of something else.

* * *

On the way back, Doyle put in a room service request for breakfast tomorrow. It was an odd impulse, admittedly, but he felt as if he'd seen everyone who could be seen at breakfast, and besides, Bodie was probably going to have him out even later tonight. He'd almost missed breakfast today. He wanted a guaranteed meal.

The clerk, who couldn't have been more than sixteen, winked at him in a manner that ought to have appalled Doyle. "Any other requests, sir?"

Doyle played the innocent. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"We pride ourselves on our service," said the kid. 

He raised an eyebrow. "And...?"

The boy scratched at his face, nervous. "Well, um." He smiled, a parody of suave.

Jesus. This wasn't happening, was it? None of the travel books ever mentioned the part where all the employees hit on you. Even the teenagers. Maybe it had something to do with being seen with Bodie last night.

Doyle, ready to put on his best oblivious smile, thought better of it. If word about him had got around, he might as well put it to use. "Actually—"

"Yes?"

"Would it be possible for my cabin steward to bring me breakfast? I understand it's not his usual job, but I so enjoy his service." Doyle took a moment to be impressed with himself for saying that with a straight face.

The kid's face crumbled. "Yes, sir." Not that he'd had a chance anyway, but Doyle felt a little sorry being the crusher of his dreams.

"Could you make that two meals, then?" Let the kid think someone was staying with him. Cowley could get angry later.

"Right away, sir," and it was the most dejected affirmative Doyle had ever heard.

"Thanks. And," Doyle winked at the kid, "maybe in a few years, eh?" It was, of course, an out-and-out lie, but it would make the kid feel better _and_ secure his cover. He wished briefly he had an alias; it would have made maintaining this false identity easier.

Speaking of guaranteed meals, it was lunchtime by now, surely. On the promenade, on the way to the dining area, he saw a figure ahead who looked familiar. A small, slight figure, long, sandy brown hair whipping in the wind from the ocean. It was the girl Maria from breakfast. Alone. He wouldn't have a better opportunity than this.

He quickened his pace, but she turned a corner ahead of him, and he lost her in the passageways. Damn. Time to go to lunch anyway.

William and Alice from dinner were there again, and he nodded companionably at them as he sat down.

"How are you finding the ship, Mr Doyle?" Alice asked.

"Oh, it's lovely." Doyle sipped his water. It really was lovely. Even if it wasn't a real holiday. "I've really enjoyed sunbathing on the deck. And swimming." And investigating other people's rooms, and flirting with Bodie, he thought but did not say.

He gulped his water as that last thought. He _liked_ flirting with Bodie? He liked it? He did. He shouldn't, he told himself. Down that path lay—well. But, really, what was the harm in flirting? Flirting was fun, right? It wasn't as if it had to go anywhere. Was going to go anywhere. Bodie wasn't going to sit in the lounge and tell stories to McCabe and Anson about this. He wouldn't. It was just between them, and even if it wasn't what most blokes would do, so what? Bodie was clearly having fun, wasn't he? It was just them. Just go with the feeling, he told himself, trying to believe it.

Somehow he'd drunk his entire glass of water.

"Isn't the swimming pool marvellous? It isn't terribly large, though," Alice prattled on, oblivious to his thoughts. Lunch arrived.

"Hmm," Doyle said, starting to pick at his food. 

"And they've said we can't use it tomorrow evening, did you see? There was a notice."

Doyle looked up. Alice's husband, ever taciturn, grunted in agreement.

"Is there something going on?" If there were, it could be the perfect opportunity to look around the ship.

"There was the strangest note," Alice said. "Something from a King Neptune. The nerve of them, disrupting us."

William finally spoke. "It's part of the ceremony, dear," he rumbled, and both Doyle and Alice stared at him. "We're crossing the equator tomorrow."

"You knew?" The woman sounded outraged. "You knew and didn't say!" She launched into a tirade on his thoughtlessness. No wonder the man kept his mouth shut. He wasn't getting any more out of them, Doyle thought, resignedly, and concentrated on his sandwich.

A ceremony? For crossing the equator? It seemed like a likely thing for a superstitious lot of sailors to do, but Bodie had never mentioned it. Then again, there was clearly a lot Bodie had never mentioned about his life in the merchant navy. He'd have to ask when he saw him this evening.

"You've seen the ceremony before, then?" Doyle asked, once Alice had finally stopped.

William nodded. "Yes. It's a bit of good fun. You should go."

"I might," lied Doyle. With any luck he'd be prowling around the ship with Bodie by then. He finished off his meal and looked around as the other guests started to rise. "Thanks for letting me know. Nice seeing you again," he said, politely, and got up.

* * *

He hadn't meant to fall asleep, but as soon as he got back to his cabin, full from lunch, a sudden lassitude overcame him, and he decided to put his head down.

When he opened his eyes again, it was half past six. He'd missed his shuffleboard appointment by hours. Oh, well, he could see Gladys tomorrow. And by now it was practically dinnertime. His stomach growled. How could he be hungry again already?

William and Alice were back at dinner, and they were joined by a woman he didn't recognise. As she sat down she smiled over at him, a beautiful, almost shy smile. He took it all in with appreciation—she had lustrous dark hair, cropped short, bright blue eyes, and a low-cut dress revealing creamy pale skin. Now that was more like it.

As dinner arrived, he ignored it, focused only on this new stranger. Probably not their assassin, but it didn't mean she wasn't worth getting to know, did it?

"Hello there."

The woman laughed melodically. "Hello yourself." She looked at him shyly, coyly, the way he was used to being looked at, not at all like the aggressive stares of the men on the ship. This was familiar. Comforting. He could handle this. He knew what to do.

"And who might you be?" It was practically a reflex, the way he asked the question teasingly, with a smile. It was too late to stop by the time he'd done it. His cover could survive a little flirting—he was only supposed to be gay enough, right?

"I'm Joanna," she smiled. 

He smiled back. "I'm Ray. Haven't seen you at dinner before."

"It must sound terribly silly, but this is the first night since Cape Town I've made it to dinner. There have been so many exciting things to do; I just missed it the past two nights."

"It's not silly at all. I did the same thing, missed lunch the first day here."

She laughed again, seeming to be reassured. "Oh, well, that's better. I'd hate to think I was the only one."

"Not a chance. Besides, might as well enjoy the last of my holiday, eh?"

"Oh, you're on holiday too?"

"I was. Have to get back to work, now. You know how it is."

She smiled. "I know! And I'm only a secretary!" She looked him over, thoroughly. "Can't imagine what it is you do for a living."

Doyle raised an eyebrow. "Civil servant, if you can believe that." He could see that she was a little less than impressed. That was always the problem with this cover. "Been on holiday in South Africa."

"Why South Africa?"

He shrugged. "Wanted to see some lions." He hoped there were lions. He hadn't remembered to ask.

He relaxed as Joanna nodded thoughtfully. "Majestic, aren't they? I was in Cape Town visiting family, and they'd never dream of doing something like that; it's only for the tourists."

He let Joanna babble on about her family as he nodded and smiled in all the right places. She leaned forward, animatedly, as she talked and Doyle admired the view. She was a pretty one.

Sometime during their conversation, the other diners had begun to trickle out, and the waiter, a slightly swishy type, who came to clear his plate gave him a stern stare, almost an admonishment. Doyle looked at him, and suddenly, thought he remembered him from the deck earlier. He'd been with one of the sailors. Christ, they probably thought he was cheating on Bodie.

Doyle made a show of looking at his watch. "Look at the time. They probably want us to leave."

Joanna almost pouted. "Oh, that's too bad. I've had such a good time."

"Me too," Doyle said, following the script. It was what you said. What was he supposed to do about this? Should he take her back? Could he? 

They stood up together. As she was at least a head shorter than he was, she had to crane her neck to stare into his eyes. "It doesn't have to end," she murmured, tilting her head at him, coquettishly. "You could come back to mine."

Her lips were parted. Her eyes sparkled at him, deep blue set against pale skin, and something about it was strangely familiar, warming him in a way that was entirely out of proportion to how he ought to feel. She was beautiful. He wanted—of course he wanted —

He didn't want her.

The thought was bizarre, outrageous, but, Doyle realised suddenly, true. He didn't. He ought to, but he didn't. What was wrong with him? He could do it, of course, take her to bed—or could have if the cover hadn't been an issue—but there was nothing there. It wouldn't have been fair to either of them.

"Sorry," he mumbled, "I've a prior engagement. It was very nice to meet you."

He smiled, and before Joanna could say anything, turned and left, leaving her standing, stunned, in the middle of the first class dining room. He walked quickly, not paying attention to his surroundings. Somewhere in one of the nameless corridors, he realised that her eyes had looked like Bodie's. He pushed the thought away. It was just a coincidence. A lot of people probably had eyes that shade of blue.

* * *

He had mostly succeeding in putting the incident behind him by the time he'd got back to his room. He'd showered, dressed, and was just finishing a shave, all ready for a night on the town, when there was a knock on the door.

He opened it, and there was Bodie. He was clearly off-duty now, wearing an outfit Doyle saw him in a lot—grey cords, black rollneck—but the way he was standing let Doyle know Bodie would not be behaving as he usually did. Doyle smiled at him, a little wider, more exaggerated than normal. Time to be a couple.

"You're a little early, aren't you?"

Bodie shrugged and gave him a very convincingly enthralled smile. "I missed you," he breathed.

Doyle didn't think he could return the sentiment without feeling stupid. "Would you like to come in for a minute, then?"

"Certainly."

As Doyle shut the door behind him, he saw the way Bodie looked at him, head inclined to one side, tongue licking his lips ever so slightly. There was really no point in checking for bugs already, because they'd just have to do it again when they came back. That meant the cover stayed on, which was certainly what Bodie was doing.

Doyle motioned him to the settee and sat down next to him.

"You look beautiful in that shirt," Bodie said, and his eyes gleamed as he said it. Doyle fingered the emerald-green lapel self-consciously. Probably Bodie just liked the shirt; he'd seen him wear it often enough.

"Thank you," Doyle said, not really feeling up to flirting with Bodie in private. "So you said you wanted me to meet your family? You have family here?"

A laugh, overdone. "It doesn't quite mean what you're thinking, dearie. But I suppose even in that sense you could say Hull and Rutter are my family. They practically raised me."

What did "family" mean, then? Doyle wondered. Was it another part of that odd language he'd heard Bodie and the other sailors use? Something about the words sounded vaguely familiar; he felt like he'd heard them before but couldn't place where. He'd have to ask at some point when Bodie was being more like himself again. And, well, in the meantime it would be nice to meet some people from Bodie's past.

"I'll be on my best behaviour," Doyle promised. "Where are we meeting them?"

"Belowdecks, there's a bar, very popular place. It's technically crew only, but I don't think anyone will mind." Bodie winked. Doyle idly wondered why they were called "bars" at sea and never "pubs."

"Sounds good." He checked his watch. It had just gone nine. "Shall we?"

"I think we shall," said Bodie.

"All right."

He stood up first, and impulsively, offered Bodie a hand. Bodie took it briefly, gripped his fingers as he rose to his feet. "Proper gentleman, you are," he said, smiling at him.

Doyle opened the door for him, and as Bodie moved out ahead of him, he saw that the back of Bodie's head looked—odd, like there was something in his hair. A tuft stuck up, spiked in place.

"Bodie?"

"Eh?" Bodie turned to look at him.

"Think you've got something in your hair." He reached out, brushed the back of Bodie's head. Bodie reached a hand of his own up, and their fingers touched again, suddenly electric. Doyle jerked his hand away.

"Oh, that's just egg." As if it was a normal thing to say.

"Why is there raw egg in your hair?"

A grin. "I'll tell you later. Maybe tomorrow."

* * *

Bodie led him on a wandering path, through unmarked doors, into parts of the ship he hadn't yet seen. He did so unerringly, without hesitation, as if he knew the ship like the back of his hand. He probably did, if he'd been here three years. Finally they arrived at a small, noisy, crowded bar. It didn't quite fit all the people who wanted to be in it, and small groups had spilled out into the corridor, clutching pint glasses. Some of them were in uniform of some sort; most weren't, but their confidence suggested they were all crew.

Bodie ignored the crowd outside, taking a firm grip on Doyle's arm just above the elbow and pulling him through the door, past several boisterous groups of sailors, heading for a booth in the back. As they approached it, Doyle could see there were two people sitting in there already, though one side remained empty.

Bodie pushed him forward into the booth, sliding him against the wall, and sat down after him. Across the table, the two men he'd seen with Bodie last night stared suspiciously at him.

Bodie grinned happily. "Hull, Rutter, this is... Ray. Ray, this is Hull and Rutter." He gestured at the redhead and the darker man in turn. They glowered.

"Hello," Doyle said. They said nothing. Oh, this was going well already.

Bodie looked back and forth, then conspicuously down at the empty table. "My round, is it?" he asked, sliding back out of the booth.

"Make it lager, Bodie," the dark one—Rutter?—called after him. "None of that orange juice, or you're buying the next round too." Yes, they definitely knew Bodie.

Bodie mock-pouted, theatrically, and practically skipped off in the direction of the bar.

Doyle had to laugh. "He did that to me last night," he said to the two men. No response.

"You should break up with him," said the redhead, all of a sudden. Hull. His voice was deadly serious. "Now."

"Pardon?" It was better than silence, yes, but Doyle certainly hadn't expected that. What was going on here?

"Do it now," Hull repeated. "Tell him you've had a lovely time, but you're sorry, you can't, and you hope to still be friends. Do it tonight."

"What?"

Rutter leaned in, over the table, and continued the explanation. "We've seen your type before. Straight boys," and he made the term sound like a vile insult, "experimenting, slumming it for the week, and when we dock in Southampton you'll run into your wife's arms and forget all about him."

"I'm not married," Doyle said, because he couldn't think of anything else to say without breaking his cover. Wasn't likely he was going to forget about Bodie, was it?

Hull waved a hand. "Doesn't matter. And if you want to explore your hidden desires with someone else, that's fine, that's wonderful, we're thrilled for you." The sarcasm was biting. "But find someone else. Not Bodie."

"Why not?" He was surprised to hear the anger in his own voice.

"Doesn't matter to you who it is, does it?" Rutter continued smoothly. Had they practiced this? He was reminded of the time Cowley'd called him and Bodie a music-hall act; the two of them had nothing on this assault. "Any man'll do. But it matters very much to _us_ , you see."

"Bodie's our friend," Hull joined in. "And on occasion is possessed of more heart than sense, especially in his love life." That wasn't Bodie. Doyle snorted inwardly. He doubted Bodie'd ever been in love in his life. And with men? Ridiculous.

"We don't enjoy picking up the pieces of his broken heart," Rutter said. "And if you can bring yourself to care the slightest bit for his future welfare—" he gave Doyle a skeptical look— "you'll break up with him now, before he falls in love with you."

"Why would he fall in love with me?" He remembered Bodie's words from that morning. _I won't hurt you. Trust me_.

Hull smirked. "God only knows. But I saw how he was looking at you last night." What had he seen? Doyle had barely known it was Bodie, the way he had looked at him, and Bodie had sworn up and down it was his look of lust. Love hadn't entered into it. So what did they think they'd seen? Maybe they couldn't tell the difference either.

"If he's not in love with you yet," Rutter put in, "he will be soon enough. By the time we reach port he'll be promising eternal devotion." Did they know Bodie at all? The bloke couldn't even manage temporary devotion. "We just want you to move the inevitable break-up forward. Better for him. Could be better for you too," he tried, "before you get too attached, yourself." 

What could he say to that? What would his cover say? Doyle leaned forward and spoke quietly, angrily. "And what if I've already fallen in love with him?"

That startled them, all right. "Have you?" The question was almost curious.

Doyle nodded, eyes fixed on the wood grain of the table. His performance mattered, and he didn't dare look up. "I've never felt this way about anyone before. I've—I've thought I was in love, many times, but none of it compares to this. Not even close."

"It's 'cos you've never had a bloke before," Rutter said, roughly, with a hint of dismay. "It'll pass. You don't need Bodie for that. Take anyone."

"Not just that." He shook his head, warding off a sudden rush of embarrassment. "That's just sex. When he looks at me—when I look at him—when he touches me—it's as if my whole self just says yes, this is where I'm supposed to be. I don't care what you think of me. But I'm not leaving him. I love him."

Wherever that had come from, it was certainly convincing enough. "God help us, the trade omi's in love," Hull murmured, probably to Rutter, because Doyle didn't understand a word.

Doyle looked up and saw Bodie, standing a few feet away, the glasses in his hands wobbling. How much had he heard? Everything? Bodie's mouth was open, and his face was strange, almost wistful, and at the same time fragile. He felt as if he said the wrong thing now, Bodie would shatter. Maybe, he thought, maybe Hull and Rutter had been right. Maybe he did hold Bodie's heart in his hands.

Then the moment was gone, and Doyle wondered how he could have thought such a thing. Bodie snapped his mouth shut, walked over to slide the drinks along the table, and plastered on a crooked smile. "Why, sunshine, I didn't know you cared." Except for the campy tone of voice, it sounded like something Bodie might say any day.

"You never asked," Doyle retorted, and as Bodie sat back down he wrapped an arm around his waist, squeezed. Why not? He was in love, wasn't he? It was last night in reverse, because now Bodie was the tense one. Why should he be? All part of the cover. They'd agreed on this.

"So, Bodie," Hull asked, sipping his beer, "how was the wedding night?"

Beneath his hand, he could feel Bodie relax, settling into the cover. "What makes you think it was one?"

"Your husband here," a jerk of his head at Doyle, "seems to think so. And you never have the same one two nights in a row unless you mean it."

"Point taken." Bodie picked up his beer, leaned back against Doyle's arm. "Could have changed, couldn't I?"

"You?" Hull laughed. "Never."

"Speaking of two nights in a row," Rutter asked, "you remember Johnny? Mr Night-Before-Last."

"Vaguely. What's he done now?"

"Hope you weren't planning on having it off with anyone else," he said, cattily, "because he's been telling everyone he knows that you're the worst lay he's ever had."

Bodie snorted. "Lies. All lies." He drank more of his beer.

"Oh, we know, dearie." Hull smiled, and it wasn't particularly nice. "Remember that time, just out of Australia? We've proof."

"I have to say, I don't recall you being particularly... passive," Rutter added, giving Doyle a glance. Were they trying to scare him off? Tell him they'd slept with Bodie? It wasn't going to work. But that didn't mean he couldn't have a bit of fun needling Bodie about it.

"Have you been with everyone but the captain, Bodie?" Doyle asked, and Bodie snorted again.

"What do you mean, 'but the captain?'" Rutter asked.

"Christ." Bodie covered his face with his hands, and between his fingers Doyle could see very pink skin. Bodie? Blushing? "I'd forgotten you two knew about that." Oh no. He'd really slept with the captain? Several incidents from the past few days suddenly made more sense.

Hull smiled sweetly.

"How did you find out about it, anyway?" Bodie mumbled. "You never told me how you knew."

"Well," Hull addressed the answer to Doyle, archly. "This was a long time ago. Bodie here was, what, seventeen?"

"Sixteen," Bodie mumbled again, still hiding his face, and Doyle tried not to gape.

"Sixteen, then. And a very pretty sixteen, you can imagine."

"Anyway," Rutter cut in, continuing his habit of finishing the other man's sentences, "we'd just left port, somewhere in India, I think, and Bodie was ill. Sick as a dog. He'd probably picked something up on land, we thought. And he was ill enough one night that he was sick all over his bunk, feverish, and we couldn't stand his tossing and turning and whinging. So we took him up to sickbay."

"And after we did that, who should come round but Captain Llewellyn himself?" Hull said. "He was terribly concerned, wanted to know how Bodie—and he called him 'Will,' didn't he, love?—was doing, where he was. And we told him how he was very ill and in sickbay, and he said as how he'd go right away, check on the poor fellow. And it just doesn't happen, you understand, that the captain would come all the way down to the peaks to check on a boy. Unless." Hull left the sentence unfinished.

"I'm sure Ray understands." Bodie finally raised his head up.

Doyle was sure his jaw was hanging open. Rutter dropped his now-empty pint glass on the table and smiled at Doyle meanly, a smile that on the surface was supposed to be polite. "I'm sorry, did you think you were getting a virgin? Did he tell you he'd never done this before either? That line was old news when he was fourteen."

"Piss off, Alex," Bodie said, and he made the insult seem almost cheerful. Rutter laughed. 

"What he did or didn't tell me is none of your business," Doyle said, using the anger to compose himself. "And I'll have him as he is, thanks. I don't care if he's done the whole ship twice so long as he's with me now."

"Oh, so loyal," Bodie murmured happily, in his camp voice, and turned to place a sloppy kiss on his jaw. Bodie's breath was warm against his cheek, and Doyle couldn't quite stop the involuntary shiver that passed through him. Would he—he wouldn't have to kiss Bodie now, in front of everyone, would he? Luckily only Bodie was close enough to notice his response, and even more luckily, Bodie was good at this job. Without giving any sign that Doyle's reaction was unusual, he smoothly transformed the kiss into a nuzzle, briefly nestling up against Doyle's neck, and then shifted, turning to lean back against Doyle again as he gave the other side of the table a narrow-eyed glare.

Doyle covered as best as he could, setting his beer down and wrapping both arms around Bodie, pulling him tight against his chest. That, he could do. He allowed himself a satisfied sort of grin as Bodie relaxed into the circle of his arms. There. Not so bad. Kind of... nice, actually. The feel of Bodie against him was comforting. Comfortable. He could get used to this.

Hull and Rutter looked at each other, and some wordless message must have passed between them; Doyle felt the tension begin to dissipate. It had worked.

"All right," Rutter said, less warily. "Just so long as you're careful with him."

"Oi." Bodie waved a hand. "I can take care of myself. I'm not sixteen any more." Maybe that explained some of their protectiveness—still thinking of him as a kid.

"So," Doyle asked Bodie, even though he knew the answer perfectly well, "have they got twenty years' worth of stories about you? I'd like to know more." It was the sort of crazy romantic request one might make, so in that sense it was perfectly in character, but a large part of Doyle just wanted to know what Bodie's life had been like. It couldn't all have been about fucking the captain.

It was Hull who answered. "Not twenty years' worth. As a matter of fact, we haven't seen him in almost twenty years."

Doyle pretended great surprise. "Oh? Where've you been?"

"What, all your life?" He felt rather than saw Bodie's shrug. "Was in Africa. Here and there. You know."

"But the stories we do have are great." Rutter finally smiled, beginning to warm to him. "Like that time we were in Hawaii—"

"That wasn't great!" Bodie objected. "We ran aground!"

"Well, it was exciting, wasn't it?" came the retort, and Bodie chuckled.

"Yeah. Suppose it was."

"Not as exciting as the second time we were there, though. You remember, Mitchell and Burke had thrown that fete the night before, and—"

Bodie started to laugh, sounding truly happy, happier than Doyle could remember him being in a while. "I remember the look on the first mate's face! Never forget that in all my life."

"What?" Doyle asked, confused, and Bodie nuzzled him again. It wasn't as startling as the first time, now that he had prepared for it, and it mostly felt nice. Warm. A little ticklish.

"Long story, sunshine. You see, it all started with this dress..."

* * *

"And after that," Hull's eyes gleamed as he finished the story, "we never saw hide nor hair of him again."

Hours later, the number of empty glasses on the table was vast, and Doyle had been regaled with a great many stories about Bodie's exploits in the merchant navy. Hull and Rutter were only too happy to tell him what Bodie had been up to. It sounded like Bodie had, in fact, had a wonderful time, and he had seemed to be enjoying himself recounting all the tales. It wasn't that they weren't stories anyone wanted to hear, as Bodie'd insisted back in Doyle's flat, but they weren't stories suitable for CI5, involving as they did almost no guns but instead a large number of drag queens.

Bodie laughed at the latest one just as he had laughed at all the others, then nudged Doyle's arm with his nose, an affectionate if bizarre gesture. He had started the evening sitting up, and over the course of several beers had progressed to the point where his head was pillowed on Doyle's chest; the rest of him was sprawled everywhere, bonelessly, more on Doyle than on the bench he was theoretically sitting on.

It was a careful balancing act, but Doyle was managing to prevent Bodie from falling on the floor by keeping one arm wrapped tightly round him, while Bodie was clinging onto Doyle's one arm with both of his. Not that he strictly needed to, in order to keep his balance, but he seemed to be enjoying what he was doing, tracing aimless circles on Doyle's arm with his fingertips. Bodie's touch left pleasant patterns of heat on his skin. It was relaxing, and Doyle could no longer quite remember why the thought would have made him nervous earlier in the evening. The beer probably helped. Doyle idly stroked Bodie's hair with his free hand.

Rutter yawned, a huge, jaw-cracking yawn, and looked apologetic. "Much as I've enjoyed this, I think it's our bedtime," he said.

Hull looked over at Bodie, who was almost asleep by now, speculatively, and addressed his question to Doyle. "Do you want us to take him with us, or do you want him for the rest of the evening? I shouldn't think he can get up to much in that state."

"Mmf," Bodie mumbled. "Don't underestimate me." The show of bravado, as out of it as he looked, made Doyle smile.

Doyle pretended to consider it. "My bed's more comfortable, isn't it?"

"And my bunk's probably covered in noxious substances by now." Bodie sounded more awake, but the remark didn't make any sense. Why would anything be wrong with his bunk?

"True enough," Rutter concurred. "But remember to be back before the watch change at 0400. You'd hate to run into your new favourite person. He's on duty tonight."

"Damn. I'd forgotten." And then, at Doyle's uncomprehending look, "I've a nemesis. Tell you later."

They began the slow process of sliding out of the booth.

"It was very nice to meet you," Doyle said, once they had extricated themselves, and he meant it.

"Likewise," Hull said. "Hope Bodie brings you to the soiree on Tuesday." Soiree? What soiree? He'd have to ask about that too.

Bodie inclined his head, trying for elegance and failing. "Mais oui."

Rutter winked at them as they weaved slowly towards the door. "Have a nice night, boys."

* * *

Checking Doyle's cabin for bugs took less time than it had the previous night, and when it was done Bodie ended up on the settee, thankfully looking a little less tired than before. He occupied the whole settee, and Doyle pulled a chair up next to him.

"You kissed me," Doyle accused. It hadn't been the first thing he'd meant to say, or even something he'd meant to say at all, but somehow it had come out. "You said no kissing."

"It isn't kissing unless it's on the lips," Bodie shot back. "And I wouldn't have even done that if I'd known you were going to have a fit of the vapours. For Christ's sake, mate, loosen up or you'll get us both hanged as spies."

"Yeah, well, a bit of warning would have been nice."

"Warning? When a bloke declares his everlasting love for you, you probably ought to be at the stage where kissing's all right."

Doyle felt his face flush, a mix of anger and embarrassment. Bodie had heard all of it, then. "While you were otherwise occupied, your dear friends were trying to get me to leave you before you got too attached. Figured the only way to convince them otherwise was to tell them that I already was."

"Oh." Bodie sighed, and the tension seemed to drain out of him. "Sorry about that. They've only got my best interests at heart."

"I'm sure. How do you find friends like that, anyway?"

He stretched. "That's another story. Surprised they didn't want to tell you about it. Maybe on Tuesday."

"For your soiree? So French."

"Yeah. Yeah, we're ever so classy. Would you care to accompany me, mon cher?" He raised an eyebrow, half-making the invitation a come on.

Doyle laughed. "As long as I don't have to wear a dress, I'm in."

"Great." Bodie reached out and ruffled Doyle's hair. "And you did loosen up there, towards the end. That was much better. Mind you, we can't get a couple of drinks in every time we appear together in public."

"I'm trying," Doyle said, and his defence sounded pathetic even to him. "This wasn't exactly in the CI5 job description."

"I know," Bodie said, quietly. "The thing is, you're worried what we're doing is going to make you come over as queer, yeah?" Somehow Bodie had gone right to the heart of it, and he shivered. "Well, it won't. You're undercover. And you'll never meet any of these people again."

"Except you."

"Except me." Bodie gave him a look he couldn't quite interpret. "And I'll swear on anything you want that I'll never tell. And I'm hardly going to think less of you. We can flirt, have a cuddle, doesn't mean anything. It's not like I'll be telling the lads back home. Besides, you've got enough evidence on me now to make my life just as miserable. More, actually."

"Course not." Doyle breathed out, appalled by the suggestion. So what if Bodie had slept with men? It was his business. It wasn't as if there had been any women on board Bodie could have had, since the female passengers were off-limits. So Bodie's actions made sense. He was clearly straight when he had the choice—look at all the birds he'd pulled since joining CI5. It was just that the other agents weren't going to understand that.

Bodie visibly relaxed.

"All right," Doyle said, running his fingers through his hair. "I'll try harder. To loosen up." It would be easier now, the thought welled up, unbidden. Part of his mind was still back in the bar, remembering how it had felt, Bodie stroking his arm, nuzzling him. It had been good. All he had to do was relax...

"Right." Bodie sat up straight, looking businesslike. "Now. Did you investigate your friend the photographer?"

Doyle shook his head. "Nah, I overslept. Missed breakfast. I'll have to find him tomorrow. There was this girl, though, at lunch." Quickly he described everything about Maria that had made him suspicious, and Bodie nodded thoughtfully.

"Could be. You should check her out."

"Seems a little young, though."

"Ah, they start them early, don't they? Besides, it's a good cover."

"Yeah. So, did you find out anything about the new purser?"

Bodie twined his fingers behind his head and looked insufferably pleased with himself. "I did. You're going to like this."

"I am?"

"His name," Bodie said, "is Ivanov."

Doyle whistled. "That's a good start. What's his given name, Dmitri?"

"Nah. Think it's George."

"George?" It was a disappointment.

"Yeah. No Russian accent, but he looks like one. Great big bloke. And," Bodie grinned triumphantly. "No one remembers him."

"At all?" This was sounding better and better.

"I've found out his previous ships. They were all small, and if we've anyone aboard who was on them at the same time, I haven't found them. Found a few blokes who were there at other times, but they don't know him."

"So he's new, he's Russian, and no one knows him. Very promising."

"That's what I thought," Bodie agreed.

"So you'll have a cosy chat over a vodka or two now, yeah?"

"Er." Bodie's face fell. 

"Bodie. What've you done?"

"Nothing!" Bodie said, indignantly. "I only camped at him a little. Got this big speech about how blokes like me are a disgrace and a disappointment to the merchant navy and the Queen and him personally, and he'd have his eye on me. They've no sense of fun, the officers."

Doyle sighed. "So he's the one you want to avoid on the way back later? He won't like it if he sees you sneaking about, will he?"

"Yeah. Sorry. Didn't know he'd be so... promising."

"It's all right. We'll manage somehow," Doyle said, and didn't feel too discouraged; the purser seemed a likely candidate, and they'd have time later to investigate. "What d'you reckon for tomorrow? I don't think searching the passenger cabins together is going to work."

Bodie tilted his head and smiled in agreement, looking oddly sad. "I had thought it'd be a good idea, go faster with both of us. But, as you've seen, I can't guarantee we'll be unobserved. And I just do the same cabins every day."

"So we need to search elsewhere."

"Mmm. I can get you belowdecks; there are a lot of storage areas we can poke our noses into."

"How about tomorrow? During that ceremony?"

Bodie at first looked hopeful, then resigned as Doyle continued speaking. "Tomorrow, yes, the ceremony, no. Unless you want to go alone. I," he made a face, "am expected to show up for the event."

"What is it, anyway?"

A rueful look. "It's why I've got egg in my hair and probably got disgusting things in my bunk. Crossing the line. All the crew who've never crossed the equator before need to be inducted. For a couple of days before they get to play tricks on those of us who have, and then there's a big ceremony, King Neptune and his court. All in good fun. Well, mostly. They like to make it a show for the passengers to try to stop it getting too rough."

"Sounds interesting." Doyle grinned at him. "I'll have to drop by."

Bodie yawned and stretched. "All right. I'll keep you posted about getting you belowdecks."

A thought occurred to Doyle. "Couldn't we go back to your place one of these nights? Then I'd already be down there." It seemed reasonable enough.

Bodie looked at him as if the suggestion was simultaneously the best thing ever and something only a madman would say, which was an impressive look to pull off. "Can't. There's four of us down there, no privacy except the curtain covering your bunk. You can hear when anyone so much as coughs in his bunk."

"So?"

Bodie rolled his eyes, exasperated. "So they think we're madly in love. And, trust me, it would be very obvious that we weren't doing what they'd expect us to be doing. I'd rather not let the situation come up."

Oh. _Oh._ Doyle felt like ten kinds of idiot. "I hadn't thought," he mumbled at the floor, remembering the brief moment of panic he'd had when he thought Bodie would kiss him in front of everyone. That would be unimaginably worse. He—he couldn't. He couldn't even _think_ about it.

"Hey." A light touch on his shoulder. "It'll be okay. It's not going to happen. No worries, mate."

He looked up, and Bodie's face was kind, a smile that brightened his eyes, almost charming with his mussed hair. "All right." 

"So that's why I'm staying here. On your settee," Bodie clarified, stretching out.

"Nope." Doyle shook his head, stood up, and began to pull Bodie to his feet. "You take the bed. You need it more than I do. Come on, stand up, don't be a twit."

"Should have told Hull and Rutter I loved you for your kind and gentle nature." Bodie snorted, a sound full of derision, but let himself be pulled up.

"Oh, I'm a mean bastard," Doyle said airily. "I'll even let you use my toothbrush."

"Diabolical," agreed Bodie, wandering toward the bathroom, and Doyle couldn't help but smile as he passed.

A few minutes later, Doyle had set an alarm for Bodie and stretched out on the settee himself. The rustling of fabric told him that Bodie was settling down in the bed.

"Night, Bodie," he called.

"Ray?"

"Yeah?"

"One more thing."

"What's that?"

"No birds, remember."

Doyle was confused. "There haven't been any."

"Brunette? At dinner?"

He struggled off the couch and peered over to see Bodie sitting up. In the dark he couldn't make out Bodie's expression, but from the set of his shoulders he looked—sad?

"How do you know there was a bird?"

"Lake." At Doyle's blank look, he clarified. "My other bunkmate. Your _waiter_. He saw the two of us together earlier and ran back after dinner to tell me all about you and your dining companion. Thinks you were cheating on me."

Doyle sighed. "It's not—"

"—what it looks like? Heard that before." Bodie's voice was exhausted, but with a bit of bite in it.

"It's not going anywhere, is what I was going to say. I—I wouldn't. Couldn't."

A long pause. "All right. Night, Ray."

"Sleep well," Doyle replied, lying back down on the settee.

As he drifted off to sleep, the sentence he hadn't quite finished wandered through his mind, and quite naturally finished itself. _Couldn't, because it wasn't who I really wanted._ But before he could contemplate what it meant, he was fast asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

In the dream, someone was holding him. He couldn't tell who it was, but that didn't worry him; his dreams were always full of strangers. His face was tucked into the join of neck and shoulder, breathing in a warm, relaxing scent. He was aware of the gentle pressure of arms against his back, holding him close. He surrendered. Melted.

A feeling of utter contentment suffused him. Rightness. It was perfect. It was almost sexual in nature, poised on the edge of arousal. It wasn't quite one of those dreams, because those were only about lust. This was everything, every kind of happiness all together, and he felt himself smile, hazily, and bring his head up to look at the stranger who was the source of it all.

A familiar pair of dark blue eyes gazed back. The mood was shattered, a bolt of panic. He tried to draw away, but the arms held him tighter, beginning to hurt, now, and he felt the hands against his lower back curl into fists and batter against his skin, and in his ears was only a horrible ringing —

Doyle awoke, sweating. The alarm he'd set was going off next to his head and the muscles in his back ached dully, a constant throbbing, probably from sleeping on the settee. For a few seconds he was aware only of his own panicked breathing before he managed to pick up the alarm, turn it off. He focused on the clock face with difficulty and then swore. Half past four. He'd mis-set the alarm in his exhaustion.

"Bodie?" he called out, feeling guilty, and, if he were to be honest with himself, still upset from the dream. What had he dreamed? It was fading so quickly.

"Yeah?" The reply was a little sleepy with a note of concern, responding to something in Doyle's voice.

"I set the alarm wrong. It's half past four."

"Shit." He heard the sound of fabric rustling quickly, urgently, the thud of Bodie standing up, and then silence. "Don't need to hurry, do I. Already too late." His voice was resigned.

"Sorry." Doyle pushed himself upright to look over at Bodie. He'd slept in his clothes too, his hair was in disarray, and he didn't look nearly as angry as Doyle had expected. Their eyes met. Bodie turned and headed to the bathroom, and after a minute Doyle heard the shower come on.

He got up, slowly, as his back protested, and lumbered over to the bed. With some effort he managed to remove his shirt and trousers from the night before. It was still warm where Bodie had lain, and he stretched out into the warmth, pulled the covers over him, and fell into a light doze.

He was aware of Bodie coming out of the bathroom, saying something to him. He had no idea how he responded, but Bodie said something in return. His tone was even, normal, nothing to worry about. Wasn't important. The heavier cabin door opened, shut with finality. He wondered fleetingly if he'd wished Bodie luck at not encountering the purser and then fell asleep properly again.

* * *

The next time he awoke, it was much later. The room was illuminated by morning sun through the porthole, and there was a knocking at the door.

"Who is it?"

It was Bodie's voice through the door. Campy, of course, with a hint of annoyance. "It's your breakfast."

"Let yourself in," he yelled back, from the bed, and there was a jingling of keys at the door as Bodie did just that. 

Doyle sat up in bed as Bodie came into view, kicking the door shut behind him as he set a couple of trays on the table in the sitting area. Bodie was back in his uniform, looking neat, professional. Annoyed.

He couldn't resist. "Hello, sailor."

Bodie gave him a disgusted look, but his mouth quivered and Doyle knew he was trying not to laugh. "And here I thought I wouldn't get that from the likes of you." His eyes widened as he took in Doyle's bare-chested state of undress in a very exaggerated manner. "Proposition like that, a fellow gets to hoping you're not wearing anything else either," he camped.

"I," Doyle said with great dignity, "still have my pants on."

Bodie tsked. "You're breaking my heart, darling."

"Don't think that's your heart." He laughed, and Bodie made a face.

"Already so fickle!" Dropping the camp, he looked annoyed again. "You couldn't have mentioned last night that you'd wanted _me_ to bring you breakfast?"

"Forgot," Doyle said cheerfully. "Oi, you going to bring it to me in bed?"

"No." Bodie made an obscene gesture at him from across the room, but with his other hand he scooped up one of the trays and carried it over, leaving the second on the table. He cast a hopeful glance back at the forgotten tray. "We must have fucked up, because I've an extra breakfast here. I'd better go take it back."

Doyle shook his head at Bodie as the tray was deposited in his lap. "Don't. I ordered two."

An incredulous, uncomprehending look. "Even you can't be that hungry."

"I'm not." Doyle smiled at him. "But there's two of us, eh?"

Bodie looked at him, and then over at the tray, and then back at him, and the most beautiful grin Doyle had ever seen spread across his face. "I don't deserve you, mate."

"Yeah, well, you've got me," he muttered as he slurped his juice. 

The bed shifted as Bodie sat down next to him with his newly-acquired breakfast, and they ate in silence for a while. Doyle paused, eggs half-finished, and looked over to see Bodie's empty plate. He must have been starving.

Bodie eyed his toast covetously. "You going to eat all that?"

Doyle handed him a piece and rolled his eyes. "Don't they feed you?"

"Mmf. Yes," said Bodie, swallowing. "But they're playing tricks today, remember? My porridge had chile powder in it. Couldn't eat more than a mouthful. Bastards." That explained the sincere gratitude, all right: sincere hunger.

"So how'd you get on, getting back to your bunk?"

"Bunk was clean, actually. But I ran into _tovarishch_ Ivanov on the way, and he was none too thrilled to find me. Did you know I'm still a disgrace? Oh, and today I'm appalling as well."

"You appall me daily," Doyle agreed, finishing off the last of his sausages.

"I bring you breakfast, and this is the thanks I get?"

"I meant, thank you ever so." Doyle gave him his best wounded-innocent look. "So what's on today's agenda?"

"Well, unless you've decided you want me to bring you lunch as well—" he glared until Doyle shook his head no— "I've cleaning to do. Then I can get you into the crew areas, or at least, the areas I've keys for. The ceremony's at six, so... how about one? I'll come by then."

"All right," Doyle said, finishing off his breakfast as Bodie stood up. "I'll go play nice with the other passengers in the meantime."

Bodie grabbed the two empty trays with practiced ease and headed toward the door. "Good luck."

"You too."

"And, Ray?"

"Yeah?"

Bodie turned back, and there was a strange look in his eyes. "Thanks. Really."

"Any time," he said, and Bodie nodded and left.

* * *

Half an hour later, his aimless wanderings had taken him back to the first-class reading room. From the door, Doyle saw several people, including a familiar looking figure, slight, long-haired. Maria. By herself, again.

He picked up the first book that came to hand and found a seat with a good vantage point, then felt mildly useless. This was a reading room. She wasn't going to do anything except read. As if to underscore the idiocy of his idea, she chose that moment to get up, make her way across the room, and out.

Doyle sighed and returned to his... romance novel? That was what he'd picked up, apparently. Great. He flipped despairingly through two hundred pages of lustful gazes until he found the sex scene. Moist caverns? His manhood, velvet over iron? How did the birds read these without laughing? He shrugged and got up to put the book back, and as he did the man at the next table raised his head.

"Mr Doyle!" a voice whispered, a very loud whisper, and Doyle turned his head to see who it was. David Smith. He should have known he wouldn't be able to avoid the man for long, and besides, he was still under suspicion. He'd better be nice to him.

Doyle plastered his best friendly smile on his face and motioned towards the door, the reading room not being an ideal place for any conversation. Smith nodded back, shutting his book—from the brief glimpse Doyle had, it looked filled with photographs of ships, of course—slinging his omnipresent camera bag over his shoulder, and standing up.

"I didn't see you at breakfast today or yesterday," the man said mournfully, once they'd stepped into the corridor.

"I overslept," said Doyle, trying to sound as apologetic as possible. "I'm sorry, you must have brought your photo albums along for nothing."

"It's quite all right," the man said, seemingly heartened by Doyle's show of apology. "I have them in my cabin, if you'd like to come see them now."

Could he invent some excuse? He shouldn't. Bodie didn't have regular access to the man's room, and this would be the perfect time to look around. "I'd love to, Mr Smith." He smiled and hoped it didn't come out as a grimace.

The man looked genuinely thrilled. "Oh, good. And you can call me David, I must have said." He had. Doyle tried not to look bored as he followed the man.

Smith's cabin was exactly like his own, right down to the colour scheme. The curtain separating the two halves was drawn, and there wasn't much to look at on this side. Several large photo albums on the table were the only thing that didn't come with the room. Those wasn't likely to be incriminating, were they? Now he'd have to sit through albums and albums of ship funnels.

"Excuse me one minute," Smith said. "Make yourself comfortable." He gestured at the couch before disappearing behind the curtain, and Doyle heard the bathroom door open and close.

He probably had one or two minutes, just enough time if he was quick. Immediately he darted behind the curtain. The bed was made, everything was in order, but there were a few piles of papers on the bedside table, and Doyle pounced on these eagerly. Personal letters. Someone named Karen loved him very, very deeply and hoped to see him soon. Damn. Probably wasn't a secret code.

He peered around and under all the pieces of furniture, as much as he could without moving them, and gave a longing look in the direction of the dresser. Couldn't open the drawers without making noise. But something struck him as odd, and he looked around the area one last time, frantically, as he heard the sound of the toilet flushing, then water running, hands being washed. Something was noteworthy here, his brain was trying to tell him. What was it?

But there was no time, and Doyle dashed around the curtain and leapt onto the settee just as he heard the bathroom door open. Smith emerged and sat down next to him, picking up the first of the photo albums.

"This," he said, pointing to a picture of a completely uninteresting ship, "is my very favourite one." 

Doyle smiled politely. "It's very nice."

It was clearly the right thing to say, as Smith nodded animatedly and started telling him about all the features that made the ship so wonderful. This man couldn't have any secrets, could he?

An hour later, they were almost at the end of the album, and they had moved on to pictures of all the cabins Smith had ever stayed in. All first class, of course, except for once, described in detail, when he'd decided to go tourist-class just to see what it might be like.

"It was a mistake," Smith said, finally. "This one, though, this was my favourite stateroom." He flipped through several shots of a room that looked awfully similar to the one they were in. The ship was a little newer than the _Arcadia_ and looked it, but all the amenities were more or less the same.

"Mmm."

"I thought I might practice the composition of my shots, as well," he confided.

"Really," said Doyle. If the man had been any less obsessed with his hobby, he would have realised long ago that Doyle was having him on. Thank God for small mercies.

"Yes. This one was one of my particular favourites." He dropped one finger on a shot taken from the bedroom. It was, Doyle thought, actually an interesting picture. David must have been sitting on the floor, next to the bed, because the shot was low, angled upwards, and he could see the open door of the unused safe, casting a long shadow on the wall.

"Very nice," he said, and this time he did actually mean it. "I don't think I've seen a safe look so artistic."

Smith beamed and tapped his finger proudly on the safe again—

Wait. The safe. The safe in the bedroom had been closed. Doyle realised, suddenly, what he hadn't been able to notice consciously at the time. The safe in a cabin was open when you came aboard, as it had been in his room; you only shut and locked it if you were actually going to put things in it, as he had. Smith was keeping something in his safe too.

Maybe he always did, Doyle told himself. It wasn't a crime to have valuables. But whatever he had now, it hadn't been in any of these pictures; all the safes in the pictures had been open. If he'd been travelling with valuables, surely he would have had them all along? And it couldn't be his camera, assuming he had a nice enough one to worry about—the camera bag was on the table, in front of them. So what was it?

Doyle's mind worked furiously as they reached the end of the album. Come to think of it, the man wasn't in any of the pictures. What if they weren't his? Most people took pictures of themselves on holiday, right? At least one, somewhere. There were none. What if these were a cover? But if they were a cover, then surely he'd have included a picture of himself or two. It was a puzzle.

"Did you enjoy my snaps?" the man asked as he got to his feet.

"Oh, very much, Mr Sm— David," Doyle assured him, meaning every word. He could be onto something here. "If you've got more, I'd be happy to see them as well."

"Really!" The man looked overjoyed as he led Doyle to the door. 

Doyle stepped out into the corridor. "They were very interesting."

"We should meet again, then," said Smith, almost delirious with happiness. "I'll have to—"

Whatever offer Smith was about to extend was interrupted by a yell from further down the corridor. "Ray!" 

Doyle turned and saw Bodie coming at him, almost at a run. There were two other workers in uniform behind him; he broke away from them, moving even faster. The look of delight on his face had to be part of his cover—or was it? Maybe he'd found something too.

"Excuse me," Doyle managed to get out, just before Bodie slammed into him, linking his arm with his and dragging him backwards.

"Ray, darling, there you are!" Bodie said, loud enough to be overheard. "I was just thinking about you." He was pulling Doyle backwards down the hallway now; Doyle looked up and saw Bodie mouth something over his shoulder and make a complicated gesture with the hand that wasn't holding him.

The two crewmen he'd left behind smiled knowingly at each other, and then one pulled out a cloth and took a keen interest in polishing a bit of woodwork. He could see, further away, a few more people—passengers, probably—regarding the scene with interest. The last thing Doyle saw was David Smith's disapproving face—though he was trying, unsuccessfully, to look as if he didn't care—glaring at the two of them, before Bodie pulled him round the corner into a smaller hallway.

"I've missed you too," Doyle said, heart pounding.

Bodie grinned at him, still looking wildly happy. "It's nice to be loved."

Keys jingled in Bodie's free hand. There was the sound of a door behind him opening, and he was pushed backwards into somewhere crowded and smelling of bleach. Bodie's arm fell away. The door shut behind them, and there was a brief second of total darkness before he heard Bodie pull a cord. Dim light filled the small room, and Doyle could finally get a good look at his surroundings. Cleaning supplies. A tiny storeroom. Well, what else should Bodie have access to?

"This is romantic." He wrinkled his nose. 

Bodie laughed. "We'll make do."

He had better tell Bodie what he'd found. "I just had the most interesting meeting with David Smith. And aren't you a little early?" He squinted at his watch in the dimness. "It's only half past twelve." 

"Change of plans," Bodie said briskly, and he reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded slip of paper. "Brought you a present." The edges of his mouth quirked.

"You shouldn't have," Doyle said automatically, as he unfolded it and peered at the contents. A map, some kind of floor plan. "Or maybe you should have. What is this in the plan?"

"No idea. But take a closer look. The writing."

Obligingly, he held it higher. The print was small, and, he realised suddenly, not in English. The strange blocky lettering was clear as day. Not that he could read it, but it didn't matter. 

"Russian."

Bodie nodded. "Mmm-hmm."

"Bloody— this is one of the plans Cowley mentioned, isn't it? You're onto it." He barely avoided crumpling the paper in his excitement and handed it back hastily. "Were there more? Where did you find it?"

"I don't know if there were more. I was on Deck 12, looking for the storerooms. Needed another brush. Took a wrong turn somewhere and saw this on the floor."

"And you didn't look for more?" It seemed a strange lapse.

"I couldn't. It's all storerooms for the sailors, spare parts and the like. I don't have keys to those."

"Good place to hide guns, though, in with parts," Doyle said.

Bodie nodded again. "I thought so too. And it seems a waste to go look through the other rooms when we've found this, don't you think?"

"I agree. What about the keys? Or do we need to break out the lockpicks?"

"I can get them." Another delighted grin, the smile Bodie used when he was about to do something disreputable. "Jensen's playing one of Neptune's court, one of the princesses, later on, and he's always losing his keys. There'll be a lot of people running around tonight. He won't even notice."

"Perfect. When can we get down there?"

"I'll have to check the duty roster, see if we can run into people who are likely to be friendly. Probably not until tomorrow."

"Your nemesis?"

Bodie sighed. "Fairly certain he's on duty tonight."

"Damn."

Here they were almost halfway through the voyage, finally with their first real lead, and they'd have to wait until tomorrow to check it out. It was frustrating. Doyle kicked at a mop, which clattered and fell over. He winced.

"We'd better go." Bodie met his eyes. "Can't spend all day in here. I'll see you later, at the ceremony. You go first."

"All right." Doyle put his hand on the doorknob and was about to turn it when Bodie interrupted him.

"Wait."

"What?"

"You can't go out like that." Bodie was giving him a very serious look, and Doyle looked down at himself. His clothes were clean, and if he'd had food on his face, surely someone would have told him by now.

"I look fine," Doyle said, confused.

Bodie put a hand on his arm, pulling him back, away from the door. "That's exactly the problem."

"What?" he asked again, feeling as if Bodie were having some entirely different conversation.

Bodie lowered his voice. "As far as everyone out there is concerned, we've been in here doing unspeakable things, right? So you can't just walk out there with your clothes and hair perfectly tidy. They'll _notice_."

"Oh." He finally got what Bodie was trying to say, but stood there numbly. He couldn't seem to think of anything to do about it.

"Shame your hair doesn't muss much," complained Bodie, running his fingers quickly through Doyle's hair, then giving up and scrubbing at his own scalp until tufts of hair stuck up wildly. He grabbed handfuls of his own shirt, crumpled it in his hands. "Here, try untucking your shirt a bit."

Doyle pulled on his shirt unevenly, until one side was almost hanging out. "Better?"

Bodie scrutinised him closely, and then shook his head. "Almost. Not enough. The clothing's better, but you're not acting like it."

"Acting like what?" Doyle shot back, hotly. "Fine. You tell me. How am I supposed to act?"

Outside the closet, he heard low voices begin to come closer. Their time here was probably up, and now he was almost _angry_ , and there was nothing for it, he'd just have to go out looking like this and hope the cover would hold.

Bodie breathed out, and the sound was thunderously loud, as if he'd been holding his breath, waiting, making a decision. Whatever it was, he'd made it.

"Fuck it," Bodie muttered. "Come here."

Before he could do anything, Bodie grabbed him by the lapels, pulled him close, and kissed him. Bodie's mouth against his was rough, bruising. Practically in shock, Doyle could only stand there, making no move to protest as Bodie moved even closer, slipped his tongue between his unresisting lips.

He was in no way prepared for the onslaught of raw emotion it provoked in him. A jolt of excitement?—pleasure?—God help him, lust?—moved through him, lightning down his spine, and somehow he'd brought his arms up, wrapped them around Bodie, probably just a reflex. It was so _good_ , everything about it was good, and he felt so started that he could do nothing but wait while Bodie kissed him, and kissed him.

He couldn't say how long the kiss went on, but finally he dropped his arms, and Bodie stepped back, breathing hard, wild-eyed, blurry in front of him. He couldn't quite focus. They were both breathing hard. He could taste Bodie everywhere, strange and delicious. His legs were shaking. That hadn't happened in years, and along with it he was aroused, half-hard at least—from just a kiss? His face felt hot, and he couldn't have put together a sentence to save his life.

"Bodie?" he managed, finally, a hoarse whisper.

Bodie's lips—God, his _lips_ —curved, a satisfied, smug smile. His mouth was red still, already, and Doyle wanted—he wanted—

He couldn't stop staring at Bodie's mouth, which was moving, forming words.

"That's much better. Go get 'em," Bodie was saying. It didn't make any sense. Get who?

The door was opened for him, and there was a gentle push just between his shoulder blades. The touch of Bodie's hands sparked against his back, almost electric, then gone, and then he was moving forward into the too-bright corridor, past Smith's door, now closed, past the sailors giving each other knowing glances as they saw him, and he could only think of one thing.

Bodie had kissed him.

* * *

Doyle still wasn't able to string together a coherent sentence by the time he made it back to his cabin. Or a coherent half-sentence. At this point he'd take a coherent _thought_. It was a wonder he hadn't accidentally fallen over a railing on the way back. He dropped onto the bed, with the lumpy pile of clean towels halfway trapped under his back, and tried to get his breathing and his mind under control. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Bodie's mouth—no. Inhale. The way he tasted—no. Exhale. 

Frustrated, he pounded the mattress with a clenched fist. It was just a kiss. He'd kissed a lot of people, hadn't he? 

But none of them had been Bodie, a fact that apparently made a huge difference. Wasn't this the sort of thing a person was supposed to discover when he was, oh, thirteen? Fourteen? Not thirty-five, surely. It had to be some twisted joke, a fluke. A one-off. Wouldn't happen again. It didn't make the least bit of sense, anyway. Why Bodie? Why not any other bloke? And even if he was... attracted—he forced the word into his head with difficulty—to Bodie, why now? He'd known him for eight years; why today, of all days?

Maybe it wasn't just today. Maybe he'd felt like this all along. The thought was sharp, sudden, and made his blood run cold, for all that he tried to dismiss it as ridiculous. Of course Bodie was good-looking, he admitted, grudgingly; you didn't need to be gay to see that, did you? The grace and competence with which he carried himself, trained and refined for their shared profession—anyone would admire that, right? There were probably even people out there who'd enjoy the way he could never keep a tan from a holiday for long; his skin was always creamy white. And he did have nice eyes; see, there, he could admit that. But he couldn't possibly be _attracted_ to the sod, could he? Because none of that really mattered once you got to know him, once you found out he was the sort of bastard who'd eat all your food, steal all your birds, and crack macabre jokes like the job didn't bother him. And all you'd get from him if you pointed it out was a smile.

It was a nice smile, though. Heedlessly, his mind flashed back to two nights ago, in the bar, when Bodie the stranger had smiled at him, and it had been —

His cock throbbed against his jeans, insistent, hard.

Damn it.

Okay, he could be honest, Doyle bargained with himself as he undid his jeans. The kiss had turned him on. But that's what kissing was for, wasn't it? Didn't mean he had to keep thinking about it. Birds, that was definitely who he wanted.

To prove it, he populated the landscape of his imagination with a variety of women, closed his eyes and took himself in hand. There. Much better. He was so hard already; it wasn't going to take long. One of the usual fantasies: not just him and his right hand, but a gorgeous bird, going down on him. Long hair, beautiful lush lips, head bobbing slowly. Yeah, that was the way. Almost there. He squeezed more tightly. Almost. So close. That should have done it.

Unbidden, his fantasy shifted, and it wasn't the bird, it was Bodie. Bodie's mouth, so warm, would feel so good on him; Bodie's hands, caressing him, touching him everywhere. He could touch Bodie too, kiss him, lick him, make it good for him, make them both feel good. And Bodie would look at him, with those eyes, and he'd be so _happy_ about this, the thing they'd wanted all along —

God. Bodie. Yes. Doyle gasped and came, arching his hips off the bed. He hadn't even had the presence of mind to get a towel or tissue; no, he'd come all over his shirt. Which was, really, the least of his problems. The blissful post-orgasmic haze dissipated quickly, leaving him drained and shaking, though whether from emotion or exertion, he couldn't say.

So much for that plan. So he was attracted to Bodie? Now what? He couldn't tell him, obviously. No, that would certainly ruin a friendship, especially when Bodie didn't like him that way—this mission aside, Bodie'd never looked at him like that. And ruining their friendship would ruin the partnership and their job. So he'd just have to keep quiet, not think about it. And if he'd been not-thinking-about-it for this long, he could keep doing it. He'd have to. 

Besides, fantasising about it was one thing, doing it another. Now that he was thinking more clearly, he could see that. He wouldn't actually _want_ to, really? He wouldn't. Right.

He stood up, carefully, unbuttoning his shirt. It would wash off in the sink. As he looked back at the bed he saw the towel pile in disarray and a folded scrap of paper poking out from between two towels, creased from his having lain on it. Bodie must have left him a note this morning, while he was out after breakfast, before—before everything.

He fished the note out with his clean hand, opened it, and winced. No writing, as such.

Bodie had drawn him a heart. That was it. A heart. He'd probably thought he was being clever.

Doyle crumpled the paper in his fist and closed his eyes.

* * *

Before lunch, he had changed shirts, managed to scrub the worst of the come out of the one he had been wearing, and twenty minutes later had figured himself ready to face food and the world, in that order.

He'd ordered, and received, a beer already. It was perhaps a little early to start drinking, but Doyle felt he'd been through enough for several days already. He'd drunk half of it, enough to make his brain stop running around in circles, before he noticed that his dining companion today was, as it had been yesterday, the lovely Joanna. Wonderful. And they were alone at the table.

As he finally looked up, she smiled at him, apparently unhurt by his precipitous departure yesterday. "Hello."

"Hello," Doyle said, a friendly sort of sound, between bites.

Her eyes narrowed, not suspiciously, more in an observing sort of manner. "How are you"

How was he? _Well, Joanna, my best mate and I are pretending to be in love. Except he's pretending, while I don't think I am any more, and I don't know what to do. But at least we're a step closer to finding a Soviet assassin, so that's good, right?_

He coughed and tried not to inhale his beer. "Fine, thanks. You?"

She smiled, looking nervous. "Mmm, fine." He looked at her again, in the vain hope that his reaction from yesterday would have changed. It hadn't. She was still very pretty—and, in today's low-cut shirt, perhaps even more enticing—but it didn't do anything for him. It was like looking at a work of art, a beautiful painting. Didn't make his heart race.

"That's good," he mumbled and returned to his food.

They ate silently for a while, and he was almost finished eating when he felt a light touch, and looked up to see Joanna's hand on his forearm.

"I'd like to apologise for my behaviour yesterday," she said, frowning.

What behaviour, flirting? Why would she apologise? "It's all right, really."

"It isn't, though," Joanna said, quickly. "I hadn't realised you were seeing someone, and I understand why you didn't want to tell me. My brother's gay, you know," she added.

Doyle nearly choked on his sandwich. "You saw me? Us?"

She nodded. "When I was coming out of my cabin this morning, I saw that stewards run up to you and pull you away, and you both looked so happy, and, well, a girl can put two and two together."

"Oh." At least their cover was convincing. 

"And, if you don't mind me saying so," she giggled, "I think you picked a good one. Very handsome."

Doyle smiled. "I think so too." And now it was even less of a lie, which somehow made it harder to say.

Luckily, she didn't notice, and her eyes sparkled at him as she sipped her water. "Can we try this again? I'd like to be friends."

"I'd like that too," Doyle said and was astonished to find out that he meant it. He could just be friends.

"Great," she said. "So, you said you were an artist?"

It might have been one of the things he'd told her the other night. "I paint a little."

"Acrylics?" she asked, a wicked gleam in her eyes. "No, I've got it, watercolour!"

He had to laugh. "Oils, mostly, if it matters." It turned out painting was one of her hobbies, and she was off, rabbiting on about the classes she'd taken and her favourite media, and she was actually quite interesting. She sculpted, too. He'd never liked it much, too messy. She frowned when he said that and delivered a diatribe on the wonders of working with one's hands.

When the waiter came back to clear their plates away, he looked suspicious at first, then relaxed. Apparently, he'd seen the way Doyle was looking at her. Or rather, the way he wasn't.

"Mr Lake?"

The man stopped, whipped around, plates balanced precariously on his arms. "Yes, sir?"

"Going to tell your roommate about this too?"

Lake looked sheepish, then shook his head. "It wasn't what I thought. And I'll tell him that when I see him."

Doyle nodded. "Tell him I love him too?" As he said it, he felt something in his chest twist.

"Oh, how sweet." Lake grinned. "Certainly, sir." He nodded, businesslike, and headed back to the kitchen.

"Nice to see you again." Doyle made his farewells to Joanna, politely.

"And you," she said.

This was what you did on holiday, right? Make friends. He could do that. The rest, he wasn't sure about anymore.

* * *

He should have asked Joanna if she played shuffleboard. Bodie had said he'd be busy, and Doyle could use the help, much as he hated to admit it. It had been embarrassing to lose to Gladys twice; surely he could win once?

Gladys waved a gloved hand at him. "Ray! You didn't come yesterday! I missed you!"

He swung his arms wide, a gesture of apology, as he strode up to the court. "I was taking a nap. Overslept. You know how it is on holiday."

"Aren't you a little young for that?" She handed him a cue. "At any rate, I hope you're rested and ready for a challenge. Don't think it'll be easy, young man! Even if I let you go first." Gladys wagged a finger at him.

Doyle inclined his head graciously and made his shot. Three. Damn. His time off hadn't helped him at all.

"So," he asked, stepping back, "what exciting developments have I missed? I'm trusting you to keep me apprised."

"How flattering." Gladys beamed and took her turn. Seven. He could already tell that this wasn't going to end well. "You haven't missed much apart from the usual squabbling, I'm afraid. Fred's not speaking to anyone anymore."

"No?"

"Oh, he'll come around. He always does. How are you?"

"I saw David's photo album," Doyle shared, made his next shot, got a five. Better, but not good enough.

"Oh?"

"It wasn't that bad," he said. "You should take him up on it, if you've got some time."

Gladys laughed. "Oh, I've got nothing but time, dearie. I could do, perhaps. I suppose it would be easier than talking to Maria."

Maria. The silent girl. "I couldn't get anything out of her, either. Except that it's a trying time for her, which is pretty obvious."

The lady practically giggled, and yet that didn't stop her from hitting the ten. "Careful, or I'll have to call _you_ Miss Marple now."

"Horrors!" Doyle laid his arm theatrically across his chest. "I can't be Sam Spade?"

She gave him a long considering look, then shook her head. "You don't seem the type."

Doyle put on a piteous face. "I'm crushed."

"Act like that," she said, sourly, "and the only person you'll be reminding me of is my new cabin steward. Lovely boy, but he does have a penchant for the dramatic."

He struggled not to laugh. That was how well she was getting along with Bodie, was it? "Mine is awfully dramatic as well. Wonder if he's the same one?"

"I've forgotten his name now." Gladys frowned. "He's a strapping young fellow, about your age, dark hair, blue eyes, very handsome. If only I were younger." She leaned in confidentially and whispered, "I have a feeling he's a confirmed bachelor, though. Such a loss."

Should he tell her about him and Bodie? Probably wasn't worth it, but, well, if she happened to see them together, he could say something then. "Hmm," he said, uninformatively, and focused on the game. Better to concentrate.

Not that focusing helped. Gladys won again, by a ridiculous number of points. He gave her a congratulatory handshake and tried not to feel annoyed.

"Another good game. You played well," she said graciously.

"You just wait," Doyle threatened. "Tomorrow will be my day. I feel it."

"Keep telling yourself that, dearie."

He pushed his sleeve back, checked his watch. "The ceremony for crossing the equator should be soon. Are you going to watch?"

Gladys shook her head. "No, I'm afraid it's my turn for a nap, and besides, I've already seen it. You should go, though. It's marvellous."

"So I've been told." Doyle waved as he turned down the deck, in the direction of the first-class pool. If he couldn't get to the parts of the ship they needed, he might as well go see the event. Maybe it would even be fun.

* * *

When he reached the pool, the area was packed with interested onlookers, perched along the railings above. The pool itself and the deck were empty, devoid of all activity. They must not have started yet. Doyle squeezed past several noisy groups of people and found himself a spot on the front lines near the staircase, leaning nonchalantly on the railing while he waited.

Soon, from somewhere behind him, there was a ragged drum roll, then the crowd murmured and parted. The press of people behind him made it impossible to turn and look, so he had to wait until the group reached the stairs.

The line of people coming down the stairs were all obviously crew, stumbling, walking uncertainly; about half of them were dressed in clean white uniforms. That had been the starting point of their outfits, at least; the final outcome was something quite different, as most of them were wearing their shirts backwards. As they moved closer, he could see that they had their trousers on inside-out and their sailor hats backwards. They lurched down the steps with difficulty, as they were all blindfolded. These must be the people who were to be inducted.

Behind each man walked another man, eyes uncovered; most of them had a helping hand or two on the shoulders of the man in front of him. The intent was clear: no one was actually in any danger here. They were a ragtag bunch and were, Doyle guessed, supposed to be somewhat piratical. A lot of them had used their uniforms as a base, but wore varied brightly coloured shirts with their uniform trousers; a few had high boots. Most had sashes wrapped around them—from the looks of it, whatever they could scrounge, as more than a few were pale, lace-trimmed gauzy things. Some of the men had gold earrings, a few had tricornered pirate hats, and several had added some kind of eyeliner in an effort to look fierce. Despite himself, Doyle was impressed.

Bodie was in the third row of pirates. Like most, he was wearing the bottom half of his uniform, which he'd accentuated with a royal blue sash as a belt. A handkerchief of approximately the same colour was tied about his head, covering his hair. He was clad in a t-shirt, grey-green, tighter than most things he wore, outlining his body so clearly he might as well not have bothered. Doyle swallowed, mouth suddenly dry, and he was grateful when the hit of unexpected lust turned into annoyance—no wonder it didn't fit Bodie, that was _his_ shirt, the thieving bugger! Must have nicked it from his wardrobe this morning when he'd been too sleepy to notice.

Bodie and the man he was guiding were walking closest to the railing, on Doyle's side, Bodie looking alertly around with both hands on the bloke's shoulders, a strange picture as the other man was several inches taller. As the pair approached him, Bodie finally noticed him, and his gaze transformed into a radiant, open smile, not at all the fearsome pirate he was playing. Doyle grinned back and held a hand over the railing; as they passed, Bodie lifted his hand from the man's shoulder and brushed his fingertips against Doyle's, a sudden shock of warmth.

Then came King Neptune and his attendants. There were a few figures in long, shimmering gowns, heavily made up with long hair. At first Doyle naturally took them to be women, but he realised as they approached that they had to be men. They seemed to be trying for an overstated campy look and not so much verisimilitude—one of them even had stubble. He vaguely recalled Bodie's mention earlier—these must be the princesses, and one of them was Jensen, hopefully minus his keys.

After the princesses came a man dressed as a giant baby, which in any other context could have been shocking but in this one, much less so. Or, at least, Doyle thought so, but the murmurs from the passengers around him certainly sounded shocked.

Finally, there was another bloke in drag—even more gaudy than the others, so probably the queen—and King Neptune himself, a dull and battered crown perched on his balding head. It definitely wasn't the captain, so the part must have been being played by one of the officers.

The entire group arrayed themselves by the pool, the initiates forming a line along one side with their keepers still behind. Neptune and his retinue stood in front of them, and, on some signal, the pirates pushed the blindfolded initiates to their knees. Another beat, and they removed the blindfolds and knelt down themselves, each to the side of their charge. The first action had been a show of force; the second, of fealty.

The king raised his arms wide. "Greetings to all, shellbacks, pollywogs, and—" a glare at the assembled crowd— "onlookers. I am Neptune, _rex maris_ , king of the seas. You will address me as 'Your Majesty.'"

The pirates whooped approvingly. 

"I see that there are those here new to my domain. To cross the line, you must prove your loyalty to me and mine, and I may consider letting you pass."

The king shuffled forward, toward the line of pirates. "Our purpose here today, gentlemen, is to turn these pollywogs into shellbacks. First, they must become familiar with my domain. Return them to the sea!" 

He waved his hands, and the pirates rose, took hold of the initiates, spun them around and dipped them in the water. It was brief, just a quick dunking of their heads in the pool. At the end of the line, a large man overbalanced and fell in, taking his pirate with him. The two struggled back to the deck, and the princesses watching them let out incongruously manly giggles.

"Next, you must show obeisance to my family. Kiss the hand of my queen."

The queen rose, tottering slightly on her heels, and moved along the line. In turn each pollywog, still kneeling, pressed his face against her hand. A few of them spat and seemed to be making faces, although it was difficult to tell from a distance. There was probably something nasty coating it.

The king looked at them disdainfully. "I shall not abide this disrespect to my consort. Fetch the Royal Surgeon."

From behind one of the princesses came a man Doyle hadn't noticed, wearing a white coat. "Your Majesty."

"Prepare a physic for these insolent ones." The king gestured at the four or so pollywogs who had spat.

"I have already prepared one," called the man, producing from behind him a very large bottle filled with some murky liquid.

"Very well. Pollywogs, since some of your number have disgraced you, you all must drink."

The pirates held the line firm as each man was forced to drink. Bodie's grip on his charge, Doyle noted, was mainly a formality; the man he was holding could easily have thrown him off. Some of the pollywogs were still making disgusted faces, but this time, none of them spat anything out. The crowd cheered.

"Much better." Neptune smiled at them. "Now, pay your respects to the Royal Baby."

The Baby waddled forward, and Doyle watched in a kind of disgusted fascination as the first pollywog licked the man's stomach. Probably something nasty on him too. The next did the same, and the next, and the next, until finally they had all taken their turn.

"Excellent. I am satisfied with your loyalty." The assembled crowd began to applaud, and Neptune scowled. "But you are not finished. You have one task remaining before I declare you shellbacks."

He lifted his hand, imperiously, and as one the old shellbacks rose to their feet, pulling the pollywogs with them.

"Swim!" He dropped his hand, and there was a gigantic splash as all the pollywogs jumped, or were pushed, into the water, and began swimming across the pool. Many of them seemed to be weighted down by their waterlogged clothing, but eventually they emerged on the other side, every last one smiling.

"Congratulations, shellbacks!" cried the king. "New shellbacks will be presented with cards certifying their worthiness. As for the rest of you, you may leave. The ceremony is over."

A great roar came from the crowd. The king looked gracious, the princesses fanned themselves, the old shellbacks cheered, and many of the new shellbacks, still dripping wet, raised their fists triumphantly.

The scene devolved into a kind of exuberant chaos then. Some of the crowd continued to cheer; some started to leave. Some of the shellbacks began to run up the stairs, but were blocked, weaving in between the passengers who wanted to descend. Doyle levered himself up over the railing and onto the stairs, making his way down behind a knot of other passengers.

Once down by the pool, the press of bodies was even closer—he'd found himself caught on the other side of the new shellbacks waiting in line for their cards, and he couldn't see Bodie anywhere.

Then he heard his voice, coming from somewhere by the pool. "Ray! Over here!" Above the crowd he saw an outstretched, waving hand, and he pushed through the mass of people, forcing a path.

"Bodie!"

The crowd finally parted, and there he saw Bodie, still in his pirate getup, laughing and sprinting toward him.

"Thought I wasn't going to find you again," Bodie yelled at him and wrapped his arms around him, squeezing him hard. Bodie's hands were everywhere, and Doyle shivered as one slid down to his arse, resting briefly inside his back pocket. He felt something small left there as Bodie's hand moved away. He was just doing his job. That must be the keys. This was just for the op.

Doyle pulled back, shaking his head to clear it, holding Bodie at arm's length. "What are you supposed to be, some kind of pirate?"

"Arr," Bodie agreed.

"I see you've started your campaign of piracy with my shirt." He pinched a section of the offending garment between thumb and forefinger.

Bodie gave him a perfectly innocent look, as if he were hurt that Doyle could ever think such a thing. "Oh, is it yours? I hadn't noticed."

Doyle opened his mouth, ready to give his partner a piece of his mind, and then thought better of it. His usual response, something along the lines of "You pillock," was probably not in keeping with their cover. He reformed his mouth into a smile. "It looks good on you." And it did—that was the worst part.

"I thought so too," Bodie preened.

He was saved from having to compliment Bodie further by the arrival of three of Bodie's fellow pirates, who clapped him heavily on the back.

"Bodie!"

"Oi, Bodie, is this your omi we've been hearing so much about?" One of them gave Doyle a thorough once-over, and he tried to stand tall.

"Who told you that?" Bodie asked. "Was it Jackson?"

"Yeah," a second man volunteered. "Told us all about how he'd found you the other day with a delightful trade omi. Kept going on and on. And she's joshed up, I see," he said with a speculative look at Doyle.

"Nantoise," said Bodie, airily. "She looks like that all the time. Bona, isn't she?" he said in a tone of pride. Bodie was showing him off, was he?

"Well," said the first man again, "Jackson was right, she's got dolly lallies. And her aris—multy feely."

"The frock bilong lallies doesn't hurt, either," said the second.

"And Jackson was right about her orbs, too. And such bona riah," said the third man, beginning to reach out a hand toward Doyle, who wondered if he should move back.

Bodie knocked the hand away. "Keep your marts off, heartface."

"Ooh," he retorted. "Having an affair, are we? With a trade omi? I thought you knew better. It doesn't do _anything_ , does it? It doesn't plate, it certainly won't tongue the brandy, and it—"

"Nanti polari," hissed Bodie. "Take it up with someone else." Whatever it was he'd said, it had offended Bodie. A lot.

"Oh, have I insulted your _husband_? This is even more gutless than I thought—"

"I'm right here, you know," said Doyle, finally, and all three of them stared at him as if he were some kind of talking dog. "Anything you have to say, you can say to me. In English." He felt Bodie's hand slip into his and squeeze his fingers lightly, lending support.

"She's a bold one," whispered the first man to the second.

The third man, the one who had upset Bodie, refused to be deterred. "How do you know we were even talking about you?"

Doyle gave him a withering glare. "I may be a trade omi, whatever the hell that means, but I'm not that thick."

"It's Polari," one of the other men piped up, after a silence. "Means you're, well... Not gay. But you'll sleep with a man anyway, while you're here."

"Oh." It was accurate, as far as Doyle's cover went. Out of the corner of his eye, Bodie looked a little guilty. He wasn't even going to ask the man what Polari was; he'd ask Bodie later.

"Ignore Paul there," the man continued, pointing a thumb at the antagonist. "He's been burned one too many times, sticks to omi-palones himself, now—that's 'homosexual,' that is. Means 'man-woman.' But if Bodie doesn't care, then that's fine by me."

"I'm very happy," Bodie assured the man, squeezing Doyle's hand tightly.

"How wonderful. Anyway," the man put in. "We're off to chat up the princesses. See you later, girls," he said, and the group moved away as quickly as they had arrived.

Bodie still looked upset. "Sorry about that, mate," he muttered, in an undertone, and Doyle was startled to realise that he couldn't tell if it was really Bodie or his cover. The lines were beginning to blur.

"So that's Polari, that language?" Doyle asked, as they moved closer to the pool, away from the crowd. "It sounds familiar."

Bodie nodded. "Probably on that radio programme that had a couple of queens speaking Polari, every week. So I've been told, anyway. Never heard it myself when it was on." It must have been when Bodie was in Africa. Thinking back, Doyle could remember having heard it, now—on police training, Sunday afternoons in the section house, they'd all gathered round the radio. "Not too many people speak it these days."

"But what were you _saying_?"

"Oh." Bodie grinned at him. "Complimenting your arse, mostly."

"Oh, thank you," Doyle said, only a little annoyed. Clearly Bodie didn't want to explain what had angered him.

"So did you enjoy the ceremony?"

"It was," Doyle scrambled for a word, "different. Haven't seen anything quite like that before."

"If this weren't a passenger ship," Bodie said, "they'd most likely all have gone overboard. Now that's a sight."

"Do the passengers ever join in?"

Bodie shrugged. "Sometimes. For them it's not usually the full ceremony, just a bit of water over their heads, like a baptism."

"Right," Doyle said, turning to stare at the now empty pool.

Suddenly, he felt Bodie's hands against his back, shoving him forward, hard. Doyle lost his balance, teetering, and he went over into the water. It was colder than he expected, a shock, and he thrashed about, the weight of his clothing making it more difficult to keep his head above water. The people around the pool were staring, and he heard Bodie laugh. Bastard.

He spat out a mouthful of water. "It wasn't a request!"

"Sounded like one to me." Bodie grinned at him.

"Are you going to be a mate and help me out of the pool here?" He waved a hand, feigned helplessness.

Another grin. "Don't think I don't know what you're planning, dearie."

"Would I do that?" Doyle asked, in the same innocent tone Bodie had used earlier.

"Yes." Another laugh, but he stepped closer, held out his hand to Doyle anyway. Doyle grabbed, pulled, and Bodie fell into the pool with a gigantic splash, submerging him in the waves.

"Suppose you were right," Doyle said when he finally surfaced. Bodie only glared at him. "Come on, let's get out of here."

* * *

They returned, by mutual silent agreement, to Doyle's cabin, dripping water all the way, and managed to soak the carpet checking everything for bugs, again. They couldn't have gone to Bodie's place, anyway, Doyle thought, remembering what Bodie'd said about the purser being on duty.

"I don't know what I've got that will fit you," Doyle said, shivering, as he examined the contents of his wardrobe.

"Yeah, well, maybe if you hadn't pulled me in, you berk," Bodie called back from the sitting area, where he was probably still vengefully dripping all over the settee. "Wouldn't have this problem then."

"You started it!"

"It's tradition!" Bodie protested, clearly trying to sound injured. "You can't say no to tradition, can you?"

"Yes, you bloody well can, Blackbeard." Doyle scowled and grabbed his most generously cut pair of trousers. "Besides, it doesn't even count if I didn't do the ceremony properly, does it?"

Doyle felt a rivulet of water trickle down his spine. He'd attend to his own needs once he found Bodie some clothes. 

A long pause. "Well. No."

"Didn't think so." He sighed and picked up a t-shirt, then headed back around the curtain. "Here, mate, try these—"

The rest of his sentence vanished completely. He watched Bodie, his back to him, pull off his waterlogged shirt and kick off his trousers, followed shortly by his pants. Droplets pooled on the back of Bodie's neck, ran down between his shoulders, down the long, pale line of his back, down even further. He was beautiful. Doyle swallowed and felt a familiar surge of heat within him. 

It wasn't as if he'd never seen the man naked before; years as partners covered a lot of territory. But it had never affected him like this. Or maybe he just hadn't let it. Damn it. He had to stop staring, say something normal, do something normal. Bodie was going to notice.

Too late. Bodie turned and gave him an odd look. God, the front of him was just as nice. 

"What's wrong?" Bodie looked down at himself. Doyle fixed his eyes on a point just above Bodie's shoulder and tried desperately to force his expression into something resembling normal. "Are you feeling all right?"

It was hard to tell without looking at him directly, but he thought Bodie's expression might be concern, and Bodie began to move toward him. No. No. He couldn't.

"Here's your clothes." The words came out of him in a rush, and he flung the pile at Bodie without really looking. "I'll get you a towel," he mumbled and rushed back behind the curtain.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Bodie asked, and behind the insulting tone was real concern. Of all the times for him to care. This was the one thing he couldn't help with.

He came back with a towel and was pleased to see Bodie had at least got his trousers on. That'd make it a bit easier, at least. "Nothing."

"Hang on." Bodie grabbed the towel, but with his other hand grabbed him by the shoulder. "Got to get you out of these clothes, mate. I don't fancy explaining to the Cow how you caught fucking pneumonia and snuffed it." His hand moved to Doyle's chest, undid a button, and Doyle drew back, half in horror at the rush of _feeling_ that burned through him. _Yes. Touch me again. Kiss me again_.

"I can undress myself. Get off!" and the words that came out of his mouth were practically a yell, as he shoved Bodie's arms away and retreated behind the safety of the curtain.

"Why're you so modest all of a sudden?" came Bodie's voice, angry, confused, hurt. "It's not like you've got anything I haven't—oh." His rant stopped dead, and there was nothing from the other room but silence.

Shaking, Doyle quickly stripped off his own wet clothing and put on the first shirt and trousers that came to hand, belatedly remembering to transfer the purloined keys to his new trousers. He should probably have dried off first, as his new clothing was rapidly becoming damp. Still, it was better than what he'd been wearing. He came back around the curtain to see Bodie, now fully dressed, slumped on the settee with his head in his hands.

"Bodie?"

Bodie didn't even look at him. "I'm an idiot. I am so sorry. I didn't think. No, I did think, I thought, oh, everything will be all right, we're still partners. But even I know there's got to be a difference between the usual relationship a bloke has with his partner and the one you end up having when you're playing queer. Changes everything."

"Bodie—"

"I promised there wouldn't even be kissing. Couldn't stick to that, could I? Don't blame you for looking at me like that. Like you don't trust me."

Oh, Bodie. What could he say to that? He trusted Bodie, all right. It was himself he couldn't trust, himself he didn't know any more.

"I didn't mind the kissing," Doyle said quietly, the smallest piece of the truth he could bear to part with. "Method acting, wasn't it? It was a good idea. And it worked. It's the job. I know that."

Bodie looked up at him, then, eyes sad. "How many blokes have you kissed, Doyle?"

"What, is this Truth or Dare?"

Bodie gave a sort of dry chuckle. "Possibly."

Doyle stared fixedly at the floor. "One. As of today."

It wasn't funny, but Bodie gave the same awful laugh again. "I can't do this job any more, Ray."

That made Doyle look at him, all right. A jolt of emotion: anger, fear, denial. "What do you mean, you can't?"

"It's this op." And now Bodie wasn't looking at him. "I'm having a hard time with it."

"You're doing fine," Doyle said, valiantly trying to raise his spirits, and it helped that it was the truth. "Everyone knows you, everyone trusts you; if I didn't know you I wouldn't suspect a thing. You're absolutely convincing."

"I know," Bodie said, voice rasping. "That's why I can't do it. I've had to become someone else. I don't know who I'll be when I'm done. I'm afraid. I'm afraid I won't be able to be the same person again. I'm afraid I won't know how to find my way back. Sounds mad, doesn't it?"

"Not mad." Doyle laid a hand on Bodie's shoulder, which was trembling ever so slightly, and he saw a gleam of hope in the eyes that met his. All the rest of it, this ill-considered attraction, could just wait. Bodie was his friend first, before everything. "It'll be all right. You'll have me, and I'm not letting you get lost, mate."

There was the faintest shadow of a smile on Bodie's face. "All right."

Doyle squeezed his shoulder. "Hey, are we still playing Truth or Dare?"

That earned him a real smile from Bodie, then. "Can be if you want. Dare."

"Figured you for the daring type." Doyle stood up. "I dare you to buy me dinner."

Bodie's face fell, a disappointment if ever there was one. "That's not a dare!"

Doyle grabbed his coat off the back of the chair, slung it over his shoulder. "No, but I'm starving, and I've missed dinner. Come on."

"All right, all right," Bodie grumbled, nonetheless sounding markedly happier.

"And no groping me under the table," Doyle said, mock-severely.

"I'm a perfect gentleman," Bodie retorted, then ruined the effect entirely by adding, "How about above the table?"

Doyle snorted and headed out the door, putting all the upsetting thoughts behind him. Bodie'd be all right. He'd be all right too, if he could just stop thinking about Bodie.

* * *

He let Bodie lead him to a bar he'd somehow missed on his tour of the ship; trust him to know everything about it. They slid into their seats at a table by the door, and Bodie headed to the bar. He was clearly taking Doyle's request to "buy dinner" to its limit. Inwardly, Doyle rolled his eyes and hoped for something he could eat.

While Bodie leaned against the bar, ordering, Doyle took stock of their surroundings. Unlike last night, this was passenger territory—there were a few crewmen like Bodie here, but they were few and far between. He turned and upgraded his rating of the place to "club"—the music he had managed to ignore thus far was coming from a small dance floor on the other side of the room, where happy couples boogied under coloured lights.

Something struck him as odd, and he stared at the couples for a minute. When he finally noticed it, he had to laugh at himself. There were women out there. This was the first place Bodie had brought him that wasn't a gay bar, wasn't it? There were women, dancing with men! He looked closer. There were also women dancing with women. Oh. And there were even some men dancing together. So it just wasn't exclusively gay. He wondered if Bodie would want to go dancing. He'd always turned down dancing before, with birds, but Doyle had the strangest feeling that if he asked, Bodie would do it for him.

Bodie finally returned, arms full of chicken and chips, hands full of beverages. He had some kind of pink fruity drink in his left hand, and a pint of ale in the right. Finally, he was going to stop being a prat and get him something he actually could drink.

"Got your favourite, ducky," Bodie called out to him, as he set the pink thing in front of Doyle. Doyle regarded it with distaste. It had a little paper umbrella in it.

"Very funny."

Bodie's eyes took on a wounded cast as he made a show out of sipping the beer that should have been Doyle's. "I'm hurt."

Doyle sighed, and took a cautious sip of the pink thing. It was fruity, all right. Lots of grenadine. Brilliant. Maybe by the time he was done with it he'd stop caring. The umbrella poked him in the nose. "Any port in a storm; isn't that what you lot say?"

Bodie brightened, or pretended to. "Glad you're enjoying it. Have a chip." He pushed the basket toward Doyle.

The food was actually good; he didn't have to pretend he was enjoying it. "Mmm. Better than lunch. Lunch was sandwiches."

"Speaking of lunch," Bodie said, snagging a piece of chicken, "your waiter there said he had a message from you, but he didn't get around to telling me what it was. Told me that you and that bird were just friends, though."

Doyle nodded, ate a few more chips. "We traded painting tips, if you can believe it." He gave Bodie a guileless look: _Believe me, Bodie_ , he tried to make his face say. _It's true. I didn't want her_.

Bodie's eyes were skeptical. "Hmm."

"It's really not what you think," he said, making as if to reach for the chicken, but instead brushing his fingers along Bodie's hand. Bodie's arm jumped, barely perceptible, and he looked up into Bodie's eyes. "She saw us together this morning. Wanted to congratulate me on my good taste. She has a gay brother, she says."

"Ah." Bodie's face relaxed, all at once, and his fingers were boneless against Doyle's palm. "How sweet of her. So what about the message?"

"Oh, that?" Doyle infused his voice with as much nonchalance as it would bear. "Just told your roommate to tell you I love you."

A smile broke out across Bodie's face, and for one crazy moment Doyle entertained the idea that that might be the real Bodie, but then something shifted, and it was definitely the cover again. "How sweet of you."

"Thank you," Doyle said, polishing off the last of the chicken with his free hand.

Under the table, Bodie's leg slid against his. Thought he was clever, did he? He stamped on the foot, lightly, but hard enough so that Bodie would know he meant business.

Bodie gestured at the empty plates. "Better take these up. Excuse me."

He stood up, walked away, and Doyle immediately pounced on Bodie's half-finished beer, draining the glass. Now, that, that was better. That was a real drink. He smiled in satisfaction and threw the annoying cocktail umbrella from his drink into the empty glass. If Bodie was going to leave his drink unattended, he ought to be prepared for the consequences.

"What's this, then?" Bodie asked as he returned, an amused smile on his lips. "Who did that?"

Doyle shrugged. "Fairies."

"A lot of those about," Bodie agreed, deadpan, and joined in as Doyle laughed.

He drained the rest of his cocktail, which, as he had predicted, was tasting better and better. He was clearly a bit drunk, which was what allowed him to ask: "D'you want to dance with me?"

Bodie's only reaction was a slight widening of the eyes, and Doyle could have sworn that the next words out of Bodie's mouth were going to be _Come on, you know I don't do that_. Which Doyle knew. It was, of course, a fact that Ray Doyle, civil servant, didn't know, which had to be why Bodie said nothing.

"Come on," he said, more insistently. "There's probably dancing at your soiree, isn't there?"

"That's different," Bodie said absently. "That's proper dancing. It's got rules. Not like this."

"So you'll waltz with me but you won't get up there and dance? One dance. Just one."

Bodie sighed. "All right. Just one," and Doyle practically bounced out of his seat on the way to the dance floor.

The song was fast, with a driving beat, and it would be easy to lose himself in the rhythm. Bodie stood hesitantly opposite him.

"Come on." Doyle rocked back and forward on his feet. "Like this."

"This is stupid," Bodie said, and copied him, jerkily.

"You're trying too hard." He grabbed Bodie's hand. "No one's watching; it doesn't matter what you look like. Just dance."

Bodie took a couple tentative steps. "I'm not drunk enough for this, mate," he muttered and it was a good thing only Doyle was close enough to tell it was his real voice. How could the man be bad at dancing? He'd seen him dance formally perfectly well.

"That's all right," Doyle tossed back, "I'll be drunk enough for both of us." He pulled Bodie closer and finally let himself move to the music.

He could see Bodie getting into it, finally starting to dance, and he threw his head back and laughed. Bodie met his eyes, and they moved as one, in sync. Maybe he'd never danced with anyone good. Or maybe it was an extension of themselves, of their work, of how they moved together, how they could be in the right place at the right time, make the right moves without talking. Whatever it was, it was marvellous.

The song wound down, and impulsively he pulled Bodie into a hug. "Thanks for humouring me, mate. We can go now if you want."

"I'm a bit tired tonight, but I'd do it again tomorrow." The look Bodie gave him was a smile that actually looked happy, albeit an amazed sort of happy. "It wasn't as bad as it usually is. Might dance more if more people danced like you."

"Don't think it's me," Doyle said as they walked off the dance floor arm in arm. "I think it's us. I'm not usually that good either."

* * *

Together they made their way back to Doyle's cabin, checking for bugs for the second time today. Again, it was clean. 

"Tired, are you?" he asked Bodie, who nodded.

"It's been a long day for me. And it'll be longer tomorrow. You've got the keys?"

Doyle patted his back pocket. "Where you left them."

"Great," Bodie said, settling into bed. He'd taken his shirt off but was still wearing his trousers, possibly as a concession to Doyle's newfound sense of modesty. "Talk about it in the morning."

"Not so fast." Doyle walked over to the bed, pulled the covers back. "Shove over."

Bodie looked almost shocked. "Thought you were sleeping on the settee."

"It gave me a horrible pain in the back," Doyle complained. "Besides, there's enough room here for both of us. Could probably fit a few more people. Have ourselves an orgy. There'd still be room."

Bodie was still staring at him. "How drunk are you?"

"Hardly. It'll be fine, move over," Doyle said roughly, pulling his own shirt off. It was strange how drunk he felt, in fact, given how little he'd had to drink. Ah, well. He was almost drunk enough, in fact, that he couldn't quite remember why it sounded like a bad idea. He was sure it had, at some point, sounded like one, but all those reasons were distant. Or maybe he wasn't that drunk at all. He wished he were. It would give him a reason, an excuse. He liked Bodie. The bed was comfortable. No harm in enjoying the company, was there?

"All right, but you're keeping your ice-cold feet to yourself," Bodie said, after a long pause, as he rolled to the far side of the bed.

Doyle flipped off the light and slid in beside him. Bodie smelled good, and the bed was certainly much warmer with him in it. In the darkness, he couldn't quite see his face, but Bodie was lying on his back, arms stiffly by his sides. He seemed upset, which was ridiculous. Nothing for him to be upset about. It wasn't Bodie who was harbouring feelings for his partner, was it?

It'd all make sense in the morning, he told himself, then fell soundly asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

He thought at first it was the same dream he'd had last night. It still felt vivid to him, although often he forgot what he had dreamed by the time he slid awake. And this time there would be no alarm to disturb it. 

This time, he was lying on his side, nestled in someone's arms. His head was tucked against a smooth, flat chest, and he could feel the heartbeat thrumming against his head. It was warm, reassuring. The world outside was cold, but here was his haven. An arm draped over him, and he ought to feel trapped, but it was so good. Life should always be this good. He was surrounded by a delicious, glorious warmth, touching him everywhere, and it made sense to lean into the heat, slide up against it, the heart of the fire, revel in the feeling of slow-growing bliss, and —

It wasn't a dream at all. The realisation ran through Doyle's veins like ice water. He had gone to bed with Bodie. God, he was in bed with Bodie, and somehow he'd cuddled up to him, and he was—he was aroused, and oh God, he'd been —

Doyle jumped backwards, electrified, and felt the top of his head connect solidly with something hard.

"Ow. Fuck," a sleepy voice complained, too loudly, in his ear.

He was still moving, and he'd reached the edge of the bed, tumbled, landed hard on the carpet, the majority of the bedding wrapped around him. The air rushed out of his lungs, and it almost felt like a sigh.

Bodie sat up, a dim shape in the dawning light, rubbing his jaw. He couldn't see Bodie's face, but he could guess what it looked like. "Are you trying to kill me, sunshine?"

"Muscle cramp," Doyle offered, lamely, reaching down to rub at his calf as attempted proof. Not exactly the muscle that had been involved.

Bodie sat unmoving in the darkness for several long seconds, and just as Doyle decided that he must have worked it out, he shrugged. "It's time to get up anyway." 

As if to underscore his point, the alarm clock went off. Doyle hadn't even seen him set it last night. The cacophony, thankfully, helped the last of his lingering arousal to dissipate. He sat up, swatted the alarm on the bedside table into silence. "Good morning to you, then."

It was getting lighter, and he could see that he'd been right about Bodie glaring at him. "Yeah, I like to start the day being hit in the face." 

He was always a cranky bugger in the mornings. If it had been a stakeout, Doyle would have brought him a Thermos of tea or coffee, would have tried to cheer him up. But it wasn't, and he couldn't, and so he was stuck with Bodie the grump for as long as he was here this morning. However long that was.

"The day can only improve," Doyle said, trying to sound as cheerful as possible just to annoy him. "When do you have to report for duty?"

Bodie squinted at the clock. "Half an hour."

"I assume you've got a plan," Doyle said, disentangling himself from the sheets.

He nodded. "I'm going to do a truly mediocre job cleaning, and I'll be back here by ten."

"Excellent. What's my part in the plan?"

"You," Bodie said, with the air of someone saying something significant, "are going to go eat breakfast. Go mingle, whatever it is you do." He stabbed a finger at him.

"That's it?"

"Then I thought we might engage in a spot of espionage," said Bodie, and it was bright enough now that he could see Bodie's eyes sparkle with delight. It was the same look he got when you handed him a box of grenades, a very large gun, or the keys to a fast car. This was the exciting stuff, and he clearly loved every minute of it. And Doyle loved when Bodie looked like that. It usually made him want to give him more grenades. These days it was making him want—things he shouldn't. 

"You've got the keys," Bodie continued. "I know where we're going. Henderson's on duty, and he's likely to turn a blind eye seeing the two of us go down there. Even better, he's lazy enough that he doesn't do his rounds as often as he should. We should have a good few hours."

He couldn't help but grin back. "Brilliant plan. Let's get to it."

"I'm stealing your toothbrush again," Bodie informed him as he lumbered off the bed, heading slowly in the direction of the bathroom.

Doyle shrugged. "You can have anything you want," and for some reason as he said that he thought Bodie paused infinitesimally longer, halted in his tracks. It had to be that he wasn't fully awake yet. 

He climbed back into bed and stared at the ceiling until Bodie came out of the bathroom and picked up the shirt he'd been wearing yesterday.

"Thanks for the clothes," he said, pulling the shirt on. His voice was sincere, which was strange enough, and somehow awkward, which was stranger. "I'll bring them back when I make it up here." He frowned as he picked up his trousers from last night. Probably still damp.

"See you." Without getting up, he waved a hand, lazily, in Bodie's direction, and Bodie nodded and headed out. Time to face breakfast.

* * *

David Smith wasn't there; Doyle breathed out a word of gratitude in the general direction of the universe and took the last empty seat. Even better, the seat was next to Maria, who was alone—her father, nowhere to be seen. This could be interesting.

"Hello," Doyle ventured, and Maria looked at him briefly, the barest glance, before ignoring him again.

When his meal came, he poked at his eggs with a fork. This wasn't going to work, again. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Maria shovelling in her food, the same way she had the other day.

If he couldn't get anywhere being polite and reasonable, a different tack was called for. And he had an idea.

"Do you play shuffleboard?"

"Excuse me?" Maria finally looked at him, and not just a backward glance, either, a good, solid stare. Excellent.

"Shuffleboard," Doyle repeated, savouring the sound of it as if he were some kind of alien introduced to the exotic pastimes of Earth. "Lots of people play it. Very popular on cruise ships, or so I hear."

Her eyes widened, shone, and for an instant he thought she might cry. Odd reaction. "Shuffleboard," she murmured. "I know how to play. I haven't played in... a while." Her mouth shut with a snap, as if continuing would make her say something she shouldn't. No trace of a Russian accent, Doyle noticed, and felt a little silly that he'd considered it at all. Still, there was something going on with her.

He scanned the room. "Do you see that lady over there?" he asked, indicating Gladys, today in spring green with another one of her great floppy hats to match. Maria nodded, and he pressed his luck, leaned in as if he had a secret, and was gratified to see her lean forward, joining him in the conspiracy.

"She and I have—a rivalry," Doyle practically whispered. "I've played her almost every day I've been aboard, and she's won. Every time. And I was thinking, well, if I had a partner, if we made it a four-person game, I might stand a chance. And you seem like a good sort. So, I was wondering." He lifted his eyebrows at her, didn't finish the sentence.

"If I would play, you mean." She pursed her lips and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, a nervous gesture. "Perhaps."

"We play at four o'clock," Doyle said. "If you're free." He finally swallowed some of his eggs.

She smiled, then, and it was a very pretty smile, suiting her much better than the sullen attitude. "All right. I think I'd like to, Mr—I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name."

"Ray," he said. "Ray Doyle."

"Mr Doyle," she finished. "You shouldn't expect too much of my performance; I haven't played in a terribly long time."

"I'm sure it'll be excellent," Doyle assured her. "You look like you'd be good."

She frowned. "I used to be good at a great many things, Mr Doyle, but that was before—" She snapped her mouth shut again, and her face was almost horrified, like she'd almost let something slip.

"I won't pry," he said, gently. "But I'll see you at four, then?"

"I'll try," she said.

He slipped out of the dining room, leaving most of his food still uneaten.

* * *

Bodie had left the pile of clean towels in his room. There was no note between them today, but the clothes Bodie had borrowed from him were neatly folded next to the towels. He stared at the towels and felt strangely bereft.

Even though he knew it was time—in fact, it was a little overdue—he was still surprised to hear a knock on the door, and something within him lifted. "Bodie?"

"As always." The voice rang out, cheerfully, through the door, and he opened it to find Bodie there, still in his uniform, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. "Did you miss me, ducky?"

"Of course," Doyle said, grabbing Bodie by the hand and pulling him in. "Missed having breakfast with you, didn't I?" He said it because it was what his cover would say, and he couldn't be bothered to sweep his room again, but at the same time it was almost true.

"Touching," Bodie breathed in his ear. The breath made him shiver, a pulse of warmth throughout, and hastily he had to move away.

"Maybe today I'll beat Gladys at shuffleboard, though," he informed him. "Found someone else to play with. Shame you're busy."

Bodie practically tittered, taking his cover a little far. It was more extreme, as if he was trying too hard. Why? 

"I wouldn't play her if you paid me," he said. "She's been in her room every day I've cleaned it, and she's sharp, that one. Doesn't miss a trick. Had to clean every inch of her room, proper-like, today, while she went on and on. Some story about one of those great big handbags she always has. More equipment than an in there, she says." That was probably why Bodie'd been late, if he couldn't skimp on Gladys's room like he had the rest.

"Poor you." Doyle half-feigned sympathy. "Oi, is that why you didn't leave me a note?"

"That, and I thought I'd come see you now anyway," he replied. He ducked his head, didn't meet Doyle's eyes.

"How am I supposed to know you love me?" Doyle asked, lightly. 

A joke. It was a joke, it was only a joke. But Bodie raised his head, sharply, and for the briefest instant the look on his face was—no, it was gone. Too fast. He must have imagined it.

Bodie put out a hand, ruffled Doyle's hair. "Didn't think there was any chance of you forgetting. I'll make sure to leave you one tomorrow." Something about the way he said it was too casual, forced. He was having a hard time pretending to like him for the op, was he? And to think it had been his idea all along. Well, it would soon be over with, and hopefully after today they'd be that much closer to the end, although sadly, the assassin would probably not be obliging enough to leave his name all over the hidden building plans. Assuming they could find them.

"Ta."

The look Bodie gave him was long, lingering, and one he couldn't make sense of before it transformed into something more inviting. "Anyway. Did you want a tour of the ship?"

"I've seen the ship," Doyle pointed out.

Bodie rolled his eyes. "Not the parts I want to show you, you haven't. Besides, you'll have stories to tell your mates when you get back." His eyes sparkled, clearly thinking Doyle would never breathe a word about this mission to anyone. The bastard probably thought he was being funny. Again.

"Sounds exciting," Doyle said.

"Oh, I hope it will be." Bodie patted his arse, and Doyle cut off a yelp of surprise before he realised the keys they needed were in his back pocket. It hadn't meant anything. Not what he wanted it to mean. Not that—No. Bodie was just checking the keys were still there.

"Let's go."

* * *

The journey down the rabbit hole had begun when Bodie had opened a door marked "Crew Only." The rest of the ship looked nothing like the spacious passenger areas, even nothing like the crew bar he'd met Bodie's bunkmates at. This world was full of long, echoing corridors, narrow staircases, dull, metal walls. The only colour was grey. It would have been depressing, if not for the joy that Bodie, practically skipping ahead of him, clearly took in this world. He wore the delighted smile from earlier, the one that Doyle usually associated with heavy armament, as he turned back every so often to check that Doyle was following him, that no one else was following them.

Down another staircase, Doyle nearly collided with Bodie, who had stopped. This must be the place. It was a low-ceilinged, almost claustrophobic area. From the vantage point of the stairwell, narrow corridors spread throughout, the roots of a grey tree. There were doors everywhere, the painted red numbers meaningless to him but clearly meaningful to Bodie, who motioned him down one of the corridors. It dead-ended, and Doyle looked at the eight or so doors around him, then back at Bodie, who shrugged in answer to the question he didn't even have to ask.

"Could be any one of them." Bodie held out his hand expectantly, and after a pause Doyle dropped the stolen keys into his palm. "Do you have a preference?"

"How about the one on the end?"

Bodie opened it, and his visions of seeing piles of maps and boxes of detonators neatly labelled vanished as Doyle saw the situation he'd have to contend with. The room beyond was huge, and shelving ran to the ceiling in orderly rows, each packed with boxes. Opaque, unlabelled boxes, of course. This wasn't going to be as easy as he'd thought. "Dammit."

Bodie only grinned at him. "Discouraged already?"

"Never," Doyle lied.

"That's the spirit. Here, I'll start on this side."

Half an hour later, there was no sign of anything suspicious in the room, and Doyle was beginning to wonder how anyone could need so many spare pipe fittings. His hands ached. "No luck, eh?"

Shaking his head, Bodie joined him back at the corridor as they shut the door. "No one said it'd be easy. Next!" He moved several feet down the hall, opened the nearest door. 

This room was smaller, and, it turned out, just as empty. So was the next. And the next. And the next. After the fifth room, Doyle was beginning to feel angry, and even Bodie's high spirits seemed to be flagging.

"Are you sure it was around here you found the paper?"

"Positive," Bodie said, wearily, as he leaned on the next door to open it. 

The sixth room was identical to the fifth, at least in its general layout—a small storeroom, divided in two by a high shelving unit on which boxes of various supplies rested, undisturbed, at least to judge by the dust on Doyle's side. He pushed a box containing tins of some kind of grease back into its place and sneezed. 

"This is an awfully interesting box of cogs." Bodie's voice, from the other side of the partition, was partly muffled.

Doyle decided to play along. "Oh?"

"Yes." There were a few clinking noises as Bodie was, presumably, rummaging through the box. Then the noises stopped. "This box, especially."

"How so?"

"There are handguns in it." His voice was level, even, and Doyle scrambled around to Bodie's side to see him sitting on the floor, staring at the box in amazement.

Bodie looked up as he ran his finger along the edge of a shelf. "This isn't dusty," he told Bodie. "Someone's been here. What else isn't dusty, I wonder?"

He pulled out the box next to Bodie's. Bits and pieces of metal on top, and underneath—"Explosives."

The next box. Wiring. Then detonators. Then a few boxes of ammo, and then, at the far end of the shelf, the pieces of a high-powered rifle with scope, disassembled amidst an ordinary box of metal tubing.

Bodie grinned at him, eyes wide, almost deliriously so. Doyle was sure the look on his face was the same. 

"We've found it, sunshine. Or some of it, anyway."

"Did you think the Cow was making it up?" Doyle asked him.

Bodie shoved the box of handguns back in its place. "I had wondered." He scooted over, pushed the box of explosives back into its place.

"What are you up to, Bodie, putting it back?"

Bodie gave him a look. "Can't take it with us. He'd know it was missing for sure. And I'd rather not have an angry assassin. Besides, it's the Cow's orders, isn't it?"

"Hell of a time for you to be paying attention to orders," Doyle said, and then "Ow," as Bodie smacked him in the back of the head. "I know, but it just seems wrong to leave it." He felt as if somehow he was obligated to remove the weapons, now that he'd discovered them.

His partner clambered to his feet, trying to brush the dust off his trousers. "Wonder if there's more in the next room." He smiled, the smile of a predator, and Doyle felt alternately warmed and chilled, and he was grateful when Bodie turned away. 

At first, Doyle thought this room was unrewarding like the others. A few of the shelves had been handled recently, and he reached excitedly for the box, only to find that all the parts in that were just parts—boring.

He picked up a few of the fittings, swirled them around the bottom of the box, and—hang on. There was something there. Something white. A piece of paper. He scrabbled for purchase, retrieving his prize. There were a few sheets of paper, all labelled in Russian. Floor plans, like what Bodie had shown him yesterday.

"Oi, Bodie!" he called and Bodie dutifully craned his head over.

"Nice find."

"Mmm," said Doyle, with satisfaction. "Just call me Howard Carter."

Bodie blinked. "Who?"

"He found King Tut's tomb, twit. You should have stayed in school."

Bodie's eyes narrowed briefly, as if he almost wanted to take the remark personally, but then he relaxed. "I think I enjoyed my time elsewhere more," he camped.

"Good for you." Doyle rolled his eyes, shoved another box into Bodie's arms. "Anything more in this one?"

Bodie peered at it critically, shaking it to stare into its depths. "No."

Another half hour, and they'd been through all the boxes in the room very carefully, and found ten plans of various buildings. The last of them hadn't been in a box at all but was wedged against the wall by a box, folded up but its existence nonetheless plain as day. Maybe the one Bodie had found had been there and slipped out? He didn't know. Doyle wished that he could read Russian; looking at overhead schematics gave him no idea of what sort of places the assassin was going to hit. 

"Time for the last room, I suppose," Doyle said.

Bodie nodded and stood up, and together they headed out into the corridor again, closing and locking the door behind him. "Can't imagine what else he's hidden."

"Maybe he's—" Doyle wasn't given the opportunity to finish his sentence, as Bodie's hand flashed out, clamped over his mouth. Now that he wasn't talking, he could hear the sound of footsteps, ringing down the stairs.

 _Move on_ , Doyle willed the stranger. _Keep going_. But the noise fell silent, and then suddenly continued, more dully. It was the sound of feet hitting something more solid than stairs. Like decking. Like the deck they were currently standing on. And the noise was getting louder. Whoever it was was coming this way.

Bodie's hand fell away from his mouth, and the fear that surely must be visible in his own eyes was present in Bodie's. Bodie's face was white, his mouth compressed, and they stared at each other in terror. In less than a minute the stranger would be upon them, and they weren't supposed to be there. They could open the door, hide in one of the storerooms, but the stranger would undoubtedly hear that noise and come find them. And they couldn't blow their cover.

"Who is it?" Doyle mouthed, silently, and Bodie raised an eyebrow and shook his head. Bodie didn't know. No one was supposed to be here, Doyle realised. So, whoever it was—could be the assassin. And at that point, being recognised as CI5 agents would be a distinct disadvantage, both for the success of the mission and their future lifespans.

What could they do?

"Kiss me," Bodie whispered, urgently, and the feeling in the pit of Doyle's stomach transformed into an entirely different kind of horror. He—he couldn't. He couldn't do this.

Shaking, he leaned forward, pressed a close-mouthed kiss on dry lips, feather-light, and drew back, waiting for a reaction.

Bodie sighed, and Doyle felt the light pressure of a hand against the back of his head, not quite drawing him closer, just holding in place. The whisper that issued from his mouth was angry, harsh. "No one'll believe we came all this way just to cuddle. Fucking kiss me already or we're done for." It was a dare, a taunt, an ultimatum, and he had to rise to it. He had to.

His head pounded, a dizzying sensation. He grabbed Bodie roughly by the shoulders and pushed, leaning his whole weight on him. Bodie's eyes went wide, he stumbled backwards, and the two of them slammed hard against the bulkhead. His mouth parted in surprise, soundlessly, and that was when Doyle finally kissed him.

It was nothing like kissing anyone else, and he suspected the difference there owed to it being Bodie rather than anything about gender. It was nothing like the kiss yesterday, either. That had only been a beginning—this was the rest of it. This was something he could do, something he could have; he could find what he wanted and take it. Bodie's head was trapped between his hands, and his mouth tasted sweet. He was only peripherally aware of Bodie's arms wrapped around him, pulling him closer. 

He wanted closer? He could have it. He slid his thigh between Bodie's legs, warm like the dream, feeling like he was in the dream again because this couldn't be reality. Bodie gasped against his mouth, a sound of pure astonished pleasure that went right through him, as they slid together to the floor.

Bodie kissed back now, taking the upper hand, his weight pinning Doyle to the deck. It wasn't a way he'd often been kissed before, but it was a way he had kissed—strong, focused, confident, seductive. It ought to alarm Doyle, it ought to be everything he feared, not being in control, but all he could think was that Bodie was holding him as he kissed him, one hand running through his hair, the other sliding down between them, pulling at his shirt. Something about that ought to frighten him too, but he felt only the heated line of Bodie's hand, sliding downward, stirring only lust in its wake. He arched up, hungrily, pulled his hands down along Bodie's back, and —

"You there!" An imperious voice boomed out, shattering the mood. "Stand up."

Doyle watched dumbly, not really processing, as Bodie slithered away from him and stood up. Every place where Bodie had touched him burned hot, wanting, protesting the sudden absence. There was—oh, there was a man there. A man. The man they'd done this to fool, his brain informed him finally, and he staggered to his feet next to Bodie. It had worked. Too well, on him anyway.

The man stepped closer, boots ringing against the deck. Tall, blue-eyed, blond, buzz-cut. He could make out a nametag on the uniform, just barely. "G. Ivanov." Bodie's nemesis, the purser. Wonderful. And what was he doing here anyway? Bodie had said someone else was on duty.

Bodie stared at the man, an insolent look, bordering on insubordination. "Sir," he said in a tone that indicated he considered the man anything but.

"Well, if it isn't Mr Bodie and his new boyfriend. Oh, and he's a passenger too." The man's beady eyes passed over Doyle, dismissed him. "The deck hands done fucking you, are they?"

"You know how it is, sir," Bodie camped, limp-wristed. "I got distracted by this one on my way over to have it off with the officers."

The purser struck out, lazily, shoving him, and Bodie took a step back and glared in retaliation.

"You're not supposed to be down here." The man sneered. "If I catch the two of you sneaking about—if I see you, Mr Bodie, one more time someplace you ought not to be, your life will become very, very unpleasant. You are aware that in two days we're stopping in Dakar to refuel?"

If Doyle hadn't known the place meant something to Bodie, he'd probably never have noticed his reaction. As it was, the only change was that a muscle in Bodie's jaw worked. "I am, sir."

"If you give me any further cause to complain, Mr Bodie, I will have you off the ship in Dakar." He could imagine what Bodie was thinking—his life happening again.

"But, sir," Bodie tried, "the captain—"

"—will certainly agree with me. You are a cabin steward. Don't flatter yourself that he would fight to save you." The thing was, Doyle mused, the captain would probably have fought for him even if Bodie had really been just a cabin steward, but Ivanov couldn't know that. As it was, they would have to compromise their cover if Bodie were in danger of being kicked off the ship. It was bad choices all round.

Bodie swallowed. "Yes, sir." They'd better not get caught, Doyle knew.

"Don't you have duties?" It wasn't really a question.

"Sir." Bodie shifted his weight a little, clearly uncomfortable. "I can escort my friend back to passenger territory and be back—"

The reply was swift and stern. "No. You will leave immediately. That means now," he snapped, when Bodie hadn't moved instantly at his word.

Bodie gave Doyle another long look, full of meaning he couldn't quite interpret, then turned, silently, and left. Doyle could hear his slow, light tread all the way down the corridor.

"Now as for you," Ivanov said, and Doyle waited patiently. He could see why Bodie detested the man—full of his own authority, quick to take out petty grievances on others. "You will return to the passenger areas immediately. Can you find your way back to tourist class yourself, or do I need to find you an escort?" The man's lip curled; it was clear what he thought of the second option.

The purser be damned. Doyle was going to make his own exit in style. "An escort won't be necessary," he said, turning and walking slowly to the closest T-junction. 

He stuck his head around the corner and added, "Also, it's first class."

Doyle managed to whistle something resembling a melody as he headed up the stairs. It was better than thinking. About anything.

* * *

On the way up, he thought about investigating more, but decided against it. All the decks he passed in the crew areas looked like the one he'd been on—a maze of locked doors, forbidden. He wouldn't know where to start, and besides, Bodie had kept the keys, after they, after they had —

Determined to prove to himself that he could continue to conduct his life normally even now, he stopped off at one of the pubs. He'd missed lunch again, anyway. Doyle drank his beer, ate his chicken, and decided to think only about the op. He'd have to check later, but it sounded like there had been no reason for Ivanov to have been down there at that time, coming right to the hallway where they were. On the one hand, it was almost too obvious—the man had a Russian name, no convenient friends to vouch for him, and he turned up in the area where the weapons were. Surely an assassin would do a better job. But, on the other hand, he had been there, unexpectedly, and presumably he did have keys to the area. And wasn't that exactly the sort of thing they were supposed to be looking for?

He closed his eyes, took another sip of his drink, and tried not to think about how his mouth still tasted like Bodie's. Christ. He'd—he'd liked that a lot, hadn't he? Had Bodie? It was hard to tell. Sure, Bodie liked kissing—didn't everyone? But over the years he'd seen Bodie fuck a lot of birds he hadn't ever seemed to particularly like at the time, not to mention the ones he'd done for this op or that. He treated them all more or less the same. So, really, it made sense, Bodie'd do it anyway whether or not he liked it. And it wasn't like the bloke was actually gay—what you went for only counted when there was a choice at all, right? The man clearly liked women.

This had to stop. Besides, even if, in some strange version of the universe, Bodie returned his feelings, whatever they were, and did not immediately request a new partner, even if Bodie were willing to be with him—it would mean he'd have to be with Bodie. And once you were past, say, fifteen, it became less acceptable to have relationships comprised solely of snogging. He remembered, the memory already beginning to take on a tinge of shame, how Bodie's hands had started to move and, more frighteningly, how he'd _let_ him. How he'd slid his leg between Bodie's. The bloke hadn't even been turned on; Doyle would have been able to tell. But if he had...

It wasn't going to work. He hadn't let himself think about it, think about _that_. Bodie wasn't a bird, in several obvious respects. Now that he was thinking about it, at all, he couldn't stop. His brain presented him with one lurid scenario after another: Bodie's cock in his hands, terrifying enough; on his knees, Bodie's cock in his mouth; worst of all, submitting, Bodie holding him down, fucking him, ripping him apart. No. No. That couldn't be his life. He couldn't do any of it. He wasn't gay. 

He wasn't, and that was all there was to it: the adolescent fantasizing would have to stop. It was nothing like how any of it could be in reality. The op would be over soon enough, and everything would go back to normal.

He left his food half-finished on the table as he exited in a rush, walking faster, trying to escape his mind.

* * *

"Ready for a rematch?" he called out to Gladys.

"I heard about your plan," she said, sourly, adjusting her pale green hat. "Maria came over at the end of breakfast. She said you'd asked her to partner you in a game against me. Two against one isn't exactly fair, is it, Mr Doyle?"

"You could have brought a partner," Doyle said, guilelessly. 

"I did," she said, and as she stepped to the side a man about Doyle's age came up and nodded. "This is Gordon. I met him at lunch."

"Nice to meet you," Doyle said, although inwardly he cursed the failure of his plan.

Gladys frowned. "Where is Maria? You did tell her the time, didn't you?"

"Right here," a voice behind him said, and it was Maria, looking almost like a normal human being, hardly sullen at all. "And I'm ready for the game."

They took up their places and played. Maria cheered, laughed, made faces at all the appropriate points, which became more and more necessary as the game progressed, because by the seventh frame they were thirty points behind.

Gordon gripped the cue the way Doyle usually saw people grip rifles and made another shot. Ten. Make that up by forty. They couldn't recover from that deficit.

"Good shot," Maria said politely, while Doyle grumbled. He was going to lose again.

Gladys beamed at him. "Thought you could outwit me, didn't you, Mr Doyle?"

Doyle smiled through gritted teeth. "Would you like me to forfeit?"

"Oh, don't!" Maria said, making her shot and failing miserably. "I'm enjoying the game."

As it turned out, they lost, the only excitement being when Maria scraped her hand on a rough part of the cue and got a splinter. Gladys, thankfully, was able to remove it using one of the many implements in her bag, and Maria didn't even wince when they all shook hands.

"Good game," Doyle said.

"Quite," rumbled Gordon.

Maria smiled. "I haven't played like that since my mother—she loved the game." She gulped and looked around.

Was that it? Was that the secret?

"Your mother died?" Gladys asked, solicitous, and the whole story came spilling out of her. It was the sort of thing you'd think was too unrealistic in a movie—only after her mother had died had her father had told her she was adopted, and they were travelling together to meet her birth mother.

Gladys patted her on the shoulder as she cried, and eventually she pulled herself together, thanked them for the game, and made her way out. Gordon shrugged and said maybe he'd be back tomorrow.

Left alone with Gladys, Doyle raised an eyebrow. "Rematch?"

"With Maria?" Gladys asked. "It would be good for her to get out more, play another game. I'll talk to her at dinner, if I see her."

"All right," Doyle said, "But tomorrow, I hope you know, I am going to beat you."

She tsked and laughed. "Threatening an old lady?"

"Only with shuffleboard," Doyle said and tipped an imaginary hat, jauntily.

She waved at him as he left. "You just wait, Mr Doyle."

Well, that explained Maria's behaviour—a lot to deal with, poor thing. Certainly nothing suspicious there. He had been crazy, suspecting a girl like her. It wasn't going to be a girl, was it? This Gordon, on the other hand...

No, he told himself, walking away, it wasn't likely to be him either. He had to stop suspecting everyone he met. First, it had to be someone with access to those storerooms and didn't that mean it had to be crew? No one else had keys. And only some of the crew had keys. He'd have to talk to Bodie about it. Keep his mind on the case. Only on the case. They had an assassin to find.

* * *

"You really wanted to go dancing again?" Doyle asked, half in disbelief, as he opened the door. It hadn't been what he really wanted to ask, but asking about the thoughts and feelings running around his head would greatly increase the risk that one of them might do something about it.

Bodie, now dressed for an off-duty evening, leaned against the doorframe. "I'll make it worth your while." He licked his lips.

He had to laugh; it was better than the other choice. "Don't think your new best mate Ivanov would take kindly to that. And certainly not in public. Just what kind of bloke do you think I am?"

"Unto the pure, all things are pure." Bodie sighed exaggeratedly. "As for you, I was offering to buy you dinner again."

Doyle gave him his best suspicious glare. "Is it a meal of my choice?"

"Mais oui." Bodie tried to look offended, but it didn't quite work. His French accent was horrible.

"How about a beverage?"

"Oh, well, _that_..." Bodie trailed off, laughing, and Doyle remained stern until he finished. "All right. Drink of your choice too. Come on."

They ended up at the same club from last night. Same booth, too. But the clientele was different, Doyle noticed as he cast a speculative glance around. "More women tonight, eh?"

"Don't know how to tell you this, sweetheart," Bodie said, nudging him with his foot under the table, "but most of those aren't women."

Doyle took a closer look at the couples gyrating under the lights and felt his face grow hot. "Oh."

"So what can I get you? Growing lad like you needs to have some sustenance to hit the dance floor."

He thought about it. "Not likely to find a real vegetable here, are we? How about the roast beef? And for God's sake, Bodie, real beer."

"All right, all right, handsome," Bodie said and sashayed off. 

He was actually quite good-looking, really, if you—no, Doyle told himself firmly. There wasn't even any chance the man would be interested, besides. This undercover thing, this was how he flirted with birds too. Bodie certainly never looked at him like that, not when he was being himself. He didn't look at any men like that when he was himself. It was all part of the cover, he thought glumly.

He was lifted out of his reverie by the arrival of his requested roast beef. Next to it sat some sort of orange-based cocktail, with garnish, and he looked up to meet his partner's not-at-all-sorry eyes. "Bodie!"

"Didn't say anything about needing it the first round, did you?" Bodie said mildly, clearly trying not to laugh as he sat down with his own plate of what looked like pie and mash.

"And I suppose I'm buying the second round," Doyle said, as he dug into his food.

Bodie grinned and said nothing. 

It was really quite good, and when they were done eating Doyle did in fact have to get up and get the second round, but at least he got his beer. Halfway through his pint, a shadow fell over their table, and he looked up to see a slightly tipsy stranger standing there.

The man was young, maybe twenty-five, dark-haired, dark-eyed, observed the part of Doyle that noticed these things as a reflex. It seemed he had tried to dress in drag, but somewhere along the way it had warped in the execution. He wore truly horrific clip-on earrings and a lacy shawl; it looked like he'd stolen clothes from his gran. Doyle pitied him, only a little, but what the man lacked in poise he made up in nervous aggression.

"Would you, er, like to dance?"

The question was directed to the table at large, and Bodie looked up with the lazy, tolerant smile he reserved for rank amateurs when they'd done something particularly stupid. "Can't dance with both of us, ducks," he said slowly. "Which one are you asking?"

The young man's eyes darted between the two of them, and finally settled on Doyle. "You."

Doyle looked over at Bodie, who was watching him as if his response was being rated, scored, evaluated. "Listen—"

"Arthur," the man helpfully supplied.

"I'm flattered, Arthur," Doyle said, searching for a way to let him down gently, "but Bodie here is more than enough for me."

Arthur's eyes went wide and focused again on Bodie in a kind of awe. "You're Bodie?"

Bodie inclined his head.

"So it was you two that the purser caught today?"

Doyle stared at the table. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Bodie nod. "Word travels fast."

"You told Lake," Arthur piped up. "Lake told Riordan, Riordan told—"

Bodie held up his hand. "I get the idea."

"If it were me, not wanting to get caught, I'd just go in one of those storerooms on Deck 12," he said. "In fact, I was in one of them last week, with Jim Sullivan, over there." He pointed somewhere in the direction of the dancers. "But now he won't have anything to do with me."

"That's too bad," Doyle said, listlessly.

"I know!" Arthur perked up. "You can talk to him for me, can't you, Bodie? You're both cabin stewards, and all."

Bodie's hand went up again, this time placating. "I don't really know him that—hang on. We don't have keys to those rooms. How'd you get in there?" He made his tone curious, verging on awed, but Doyle could see his eyes, and he knew Bodie wasn't happy with the idea that more people might have access to the place.

Arthur beamed proudly. "You know how Jensen's always losing his keys?"

"Yeah," Bodie said, and Doyle knew what was coming. Oh no.

"The last time he did, last month, Jim found them." The man practically giggled. "Didn't give them back either. He's just hung on to them. He said Deck 12 was a great place for a tryst."

Damn, damn, damn. Another suspect. Bodie's eyes, grim, met his.

"Which one did you say he was?" Doyle asked, pretending interest. "Maybe we'll plead your case."

"Oh, would you?" Arthur looked as if he were about to cry from sheer happiness. "Jim's the queen over there, blond wig, red dress."

"I see him," Doyle said, squinting at the crowd. "Tell you what, once we finish our drinks, maybe we'll dance around that way, see what we can do."

"But it would help if we knew some more about him," Bodie put in smoothly, and Doyle had to admire his interrogation technique. "I hardly know him myself, and maybe if I could get an idea of his personality, we might know what to say."

Doyle got up, shuffled over to Bodie's side of the table, making a free space. "Sit down, why don't you?"

"Oh, I know all about him!" Arthur volunteered, taking the offered seat. "As much as anyone knows, anyway—he's only been here since the last time we were in India, a few weeks back."

The two of them exchanged looks as Doyle slid onto the bench next to Bodie. This Jim was new enough, and he had access. Not another one.

"Why don't you tell us?" Doyle asked.

It had been the right thing to say, as Arthur immediately began to rattle off everything he knew about the man, including his frequent trips with him to the storerooms they'd checked. They'd been together practically since Sullivan had come aboard, and from the way he talked about him it sounded like he didn't have much of a history. 

Arthur chattered on. "And I had worried that he was being _unfaithful_ , because we used to meet there separately, and a lot of the time he was already there in the storeroom when I got there, and I thought maybe he'd had someone else there, because the boxes were always shifted about, you know, to make it more _comfortable_ , and oh, I can hardly bear to think of it!"

Bodie patted his hand, stiffly. "There, there." As he did it he glanced over at Doyle, and Doyle was sure he knew exactly what Bodie was thinking. This was what they were supposed to look for.

"You will talk to him, won't you?" Arthur implored. "Tell him what he means to me!" He was really sort of sweet, in a painfully awkward way.

"We'll try," Doyle said.

"Oh, I can't watch! I'll go back to my peak. Maybe he can come round," the man said hurriedly and slid out of the booth. "Thank you ever so much."

"Wait," Bodie put in, suddenly, and the man stopped. "I've an idea. Are you coming to the soiree tomorrow night?"

Arthur sniffed. "Not invited."

"Now you are." Bodie reached into his pocket, and pulled out a small square of paper, handed it over. "And we'll go give Jim there an invitation too. And it's a very intimate party, you see—he'll hardly be able to ignore you."

"Oh, you're wonderful!" Arthur looked pathetically happy, crumpling the invitation to his chest. "I'll be there for certain," he said over his shoulder as he scurried away.

"Well." After the man had gone, Bodie let out a breath, and the sigh somehow conveyed everything he couldn't say while keeping his cover, in public.

Doyle peered over at the pocket where the invitation had come from. "Do I get one of those?"

Bodie shrugged. "I'll leave you one tomorrow. You wouldn't need it to get in, anyway; I was planning on escorting you."

"I don't think I'm in the mood to dance tonight," Doyle said carefully. "What do you say to heading back to my place?"

He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable, as the smile Bodie gave him in return was practically lecherous. "You know I'd love to," he said, low, intense. "But first I need to deliver an invitation. Excuse me for a minute."

He watched as Bodie walked away, across the dance floor, up to the queen Arthur had pointed out. He couldn't hear them, but it was clear from the body language what was going on. Jim turned round, interested, but Bodie was politely shaking his head, declining. There was an exchange of words, a quick conversation, and then Bodie handed the man the same sort of card he had given Arthur. As Bodie turned to leave, Doyle watched, unsure whether he should be amused, as a hand darted out from someone in the mass of dancers, pinched Bodie's arse. Bodie played surprise, reproach, and then gestured over at _him_. Several people turned to look his way, and Doyle could almost hear what Bodie was saying—"Sorry, love, I'm taken." Eventually his partner wended his way out of the crowd, back to his side.

"I'm all yours," Bodie said, quietly, the same intense voice. He didn't mean it, Doyle told himself. It was only the cover.

"That lot had other ideas, I see," Doyle returned, as he stood up. 

Bodie shrugged. "Told them I wasn't interested."

Bodie slung a companionable arm around him, and together they made their way home.

* * *

Doyle almost enjoyed checking the place over, again, because it meant he didn't have to look at Bodie. When he was finally done, he ventured a glance over at Bodie on the settee as he pulled up a chair. He needed to get out of the bloke's personal space.

Bodie said nothing, merely looked at him, level, even. It was as if he was saying _we don't have to talk about it_. Which was, thankfully, what Doyle wanted to hear. Nothing anyone could say would make him feel any better about it.

"Your thoughts on the suspects?" Doyle asked, finally.

"Now we've got to consider this Sullivan character," Bodie said, unnecessarily, since it wasn't as if Doyle didn't know. "Other than him, there's Ivanov and your photographer—Smith, was it? They'd be my top three picks."

"And we'll be investigating Sullivan at your party tomorrow night. I can spend more time with Smith tomorrow—but how can we find anything else out about Ivanov? You can't just ask him anything."

"Excuse me, sir, are you an assassin?" Bodie snorted. "He'd have me off the ship day after tomorrow. No, I was planning on staking out Deck 12. We know where the weapons are; ought to see who spends time there."

Doyle looked at him curiously. "You think he's going to come back? He doesn't need the weapons until we get to Southampton."

"It's a better fucking idea than just talking to people!" Bodie snapped, suddenly vicious. "Chances are good the assassin's someone we've never met, and we'd be wasting our time looking at someone's fucking holiday snaps!"

Where had that come from? "Suppose you want me to join you on the stakeout?"

Bodie looked at him bleakly, the fight suddenly gone out of him. "And if we get caught again, you can tell everyone how your fucking bent partner made you snog him again, yeah? Put it in your report. Can't trust those nasty queers." The words were cruel, and to hear them issuing flatly from Bodie's mouth was somehow much, much worse. And there it was, out in the open.

"It's not like that," Doyle insisted, horrified that Bodie would say such a thing. Doyle wouldn't say that anyway; he was the one who'd liked it, done it, Bodie hadn't even done anything. "Besides, you're not gay."

And now Bodie was staring at him in confusion, brow furrowed, face twisted. "Doyle, I was willing to believe you the other night when you said you didn't remember me telling you before, but this is something else, mate. How many bleeding times do I need to tell you?"

"I don't understand," Doyle said. "You're not—you can't be—"

Bodie glared at him. "You've met more than one man I've had it off with. They told you so. The captain fucked me every night for a month, and I fucking loved it. Only queers know Polari. And I had my fucking tongue halfway down your throat, and you're going to sit there and tell me I can't possibly be gay?" The words came out in a snarl. "Tell me, then, what makes a bloke gay, Doyle? Should I wear a sign? I'd love to know."

"But—but," Doyle stammered. "There's only men here. You didn't have a choice, did you? I've seen you; you only pull birds, since I've known you. So I figured, now that you've a choice and all—"

"That's—I don't know what that is. Sweet of you, maybe. Never wanting to believe the worst of me." Bodie started to laugh, and the sound was almost hysterical, with a rising edge of madness, unsettling. "You've got it exactly backwards, mate. One hundred percent wrong."

With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Doyle had to ask. "Going to correct me?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"Of course." Doyle nodded.

Bodie sighed. "Do you know why I ran away from home, Ray?"

Doyle shook his head. "Assumed you didn't get along well with your family."

"My father caught me." Bodie's voice was distant, emotionless. Reciting a story that happened to someone else a long time ago. "Henry from across the road and me, we were mates. More than mates. We'd cuddle, kiss, mess about, you know. One day we were upstairs at my house, and my dad, he—I don't know how he found out. He burst in, screaming his fool head off about how no son of his was a fairy. Beat me half to death, he did."

"Christ, Bodie," he said. "I didn't know." But Bodie was still talking, working through the rest of the story.

"So I figured, bugger all this for a lark, you know? Won't stay where I'm not wanted. So when I'd healed up a little, that's what I did. I just left. Never looked back. And somehow I ended up here, and it was—it was like magic. Like Christmas. You remember being fourteen?"

"Yeah," Doyle said hesitantly. "Though it was girls I was mad about. None of them would even talk to me, though."

"Imagine they all wanted you." Bodie half-smiled, lost in nostalgia. "And they did. Dream come true. I was young and stupid, but somehow I never ended up with anyone who was a bad one. Hull and Rutter looked out for me some. It helped."

"So how do you go from that to this?" Doyle asked, honestly curious. "You were gay, but now...?"

Bodie shrugged. "I'd be gay if I had a choice. Or, I don't know, bisexual. Didn't sleep with a woman until I was twenty, and I was mostly just curious. It's fine. Not as good as with men, but sex is sex, right? And I don't have a choice, so it's a good thing I can get it up."

"What do you mean, you don't have a choice?"

"I promised the Cow I'd stop going with blokes. Swore I'd be absolutely heterosexual. Had to, to get the job. And I did. Other than what's-his-face the other night, I haven't been with a man since '75." Bodie smiled ruefully, and everything Doyle had thought about him somehow shifted. "It wasn't a problem in the army; if I'd got caught, I'd just have been discharged. But in this mob, the company we keep—it's bad news for more than just me if I'm found seducing the ambassador of some important country or other. I am not, you may have noticed, especially discreet in my affections. That and there's a policy about blackmail." He made a pained face.

Doyle gaped. "But you're always going after women—"

"I like sex." Bodie gave him an amused, tolerant look. "And if all I can have is women, I'm bloody well having them. And the rest of it, I just don't think about."

"Oh," Doyle said, because it was all he dared say. The rest of it would not pass his lips.

The question he couldn't ask burned in his mind. _What about me, Bodie? Do you want me? I'm going mad. I can't stop thinking about you_. Even if Bodie was—gay, bi, whatever—it didn't change anything. Bodie clearly didn't feel the same way about him. Just because someone was gay didn't mean he liked you. He knew that. He'd seen how Bodie flirted, and as he said, it wasn't discreet. In eight years, he'd have noticed something. And even if he did feel anything beyond friendship, he wouldn't do anything about it. The job was too important to him. Doyle knew how much Bodie loved his work. So he'd just have to stop. Stop feeling whatever he felt. How could he? It was a mess, that was what it was.

Bodie was looking at his downtrodden face with dismay and clearly misinterpreting it. "Sorry you shared your bed last night with a pervert, aren't you? I'll put in a request for a transfer when we get back, a new partner, and you'll never have to see—"

"Don't you fucking dare," Doyle said, vehemently, and somehow he was out of his chair, grabbing Bodie by the shoulders. "You're my best mate, you're the best man I've ever worked with, and don't you dare run away from me."

Bodie's hands came up, fastened around his wrists, and his eyes were blue fire, his mouth a hard line.

"Besides," he said, not really thinking about it until the words were out of his mouth, "the bed was much warmer with you in it, and I am not sleeping on the settee again."

Bodie kept up the glare for barely another second before he dissolved into laughter and his grip sagged. "You stole all the blankets."

"You took the pillow," Doyle retorted.

"Wouldn't have had to if you hadn't nicked the blankets," he said instantly, like it was some kind of trade, like they had to be even in all things, linens included.

"I was cold," he protested, remembering too late how untrue that was, how he'd woken up warm, with Bodie wrapped around him. It had been wonderful and terrifying at the same time. What if he did that again?

"And you tried to kill me," Bodie pointed out. "Probably not the best strategy for staying warm. Corpses cool awfully fast."

"I'll try not to kill you tonight," Doyle promised. Because, if he had anything to say about it, he wouldn't end up in Bodie's arms. Other side of the bed, definitely. Safest place to be.

Bodie wagged a finger at him. "I'm holding you to that, mate. It's not a good way to wake up."

"You'll be safe from me," Doyle said, laughing, and he almost didn't notice the flicker of—something—in Bodie's eyes. Was it because that was the promise Bodie had made him? Had to be. The reversal was funny, then, he guessed. Or odd. That had to be what the look meant.

And somehow, soon after that, they ended up in bed together. He dived in first, staked out half of the pillow and his share of the blankets, and looked up to see Bodie, a darker shadow in the darkness of the cabin, standing next to the bed, hesitating. He'd left his trousers on as well, thank God, Doyle noticed.

"Ray—" Bodie said, then broke off, leaving the sentence unfinished. He didn't know what words Bodie had in mind, but it didn't matter. The answer was the same.

"It's all right, Bodie," he said, and it was. 

Bodie nodded, a wavering of the shadow. The bed dipped with his weight; the blankets rustled as he slid in next to him. They didn't have to explain, didn't have to make excuses to each other. He trusted Bodie, and to think the man thought it was him Doyle might be worried about here. But he wasn't going to say anything, or do anything, anyway, so this was all they would have.

"You're taking this well," Bodie said, quietly, as he turned over, started to wrest the pillow away from Doyle's clutches. Doyle let him. "Most straight men don't."

Oh, if Bodie only knew. "Told you you were my best mate," he muttered roughly, turned away, onto his side. "Who else have I got? And you're still you. Doesn't change anything," he said, insistently, but it wasn't Bodie he was trying to convince any more.

He could hear Bodie exhale, a slow breath, loud in the silence of the room. "Night, Ray."

"Good night. Sleep well."

It was enough. It had always been. It would have to be enough.


	7. Chapter 7

When Doyle awoke in the morning, he found that Bodie hadn't stolen the pillow after all. Or rather, if he had at some point, the situation had since changed. He had the whole pillow to himself. And Bodie—well, Bodie had him as a pillow. He was lying on his back, with Bodie's nose poking him in the chest, Bodie's arm curled around his midsection, possessive in his slumber. He'd never have done it if he were awake, Doyle knew, and felt only a little guilty for enjoying it so much. Even if it weren't real, couldn't be real, the sheer rightness of it made something within him ache. 

He gazed down at Bodie's face. His eyelashes fluttered in his sleep, a secret code, the middle of a dream. He'd commit every moment to memory. When they got back, when the op ended, there would certainly be no more of this kind of thing. Bodie's hair was in disarray, he noted, tracing an errant lock with his eyes; Bodie's skin against his was shockingly pale, and —

Why could he see him so well? It was well past dawn, Doyle realised, with a start. Bodie had usually left long before now. And just as he'd figured that out, a heavy knock rang out, thudding against the door.

Bodie mumbled something unintelligible in response to the noise, and he squeezed Doyle tighter, practically nuzzling him as he did so. The knock came again, more insistent, and Bodie finally opened his eyes, half-smiled, blinked blearily at him—and froze. So much for the fantasy. Bodie leapt off him as if the touch alone burned him.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," Bodie was mumbling, looking almost horrified.

Doyle waved a dismissive hand at him as he swung upright. "Don't worry about it. I'll go get the door."

"Can't believe I forgot the alarm," Bodie muttered to himself as Doyle padded across the cabin to greet the unexpected visitor.

The door swung open to reveal a man in uniform, looking vaguely familiar and vaguely annoyed. His waiter. Lake. Bodie's bunkmate, his sleep-fogged mind eventually told him.

"Can I help you?" Doyle asked, trying to make it sound as if half-dressed people asked their waiters this all the time.

"Have you seen Bodie around?" Lake spoke quickly, brusquely, the tone of a man on an unwanted errand. "He hasn't shown up for work yet, and his other bunkmates thought you might know his whereabouts."

"I, uh—" 

"Give me a minute," Bodie called, coming out from around the curtain, his shirt half-unbuttoned.

Lake smirked as he saw him. "Did you have a good night?"

"Oh, Ray's the best," Bodie said, sort of dreamily, hopping a little as he pulled his left boot on. Doyle could only stare. "I seem to have lost track of time."

"I can see that. Next time, have him back earlier, will you?" The question was directed at Doyle.

"I'll try," Doyle offered, feeling foolish, like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't. 

Bodie did up the last of his buttons and ran his hand through his hair. It still stuck up. "I'd best be going." He smiled at Doyle, and it wasn't really him, it shouldn't make him feel like that, it shouldn't—"Perhaps I'll come by in a bit, that thing we talked about." What thing? The stakeout?

"I'd like that." Bodie would never know how much he meant it. Only good thing about this cover.

Lake rolled his eyes. "Come on, lovebirds. Time for work."

"All right," Bodie said irritably. As he stamped toward the door he stopped, wrapped an arm around Doyle, and kissed him once on the lips, quickly, a bolt of lightning. "See you later, Ray."

The door closed behind him, and as the footsteps receded Doyle sank down, sliding against the wall, until he was on the floor. Three more days. Only three. He'd been in worse situations. He'd been shot twice in the chest last year, for God's sake. But that had been only pain, only the physical. He knew how to handle that. This, though—this was going to kill him.

* * *

At breakfast, he pushed his eggs around the plate until they congealed into an unappetizing cholesterol-filled lump. He wasn't hungry anyway.

Over at the other end of the room, Gladys had gathered an audience of shuffleboard players. Whatever she was telling them was riveting. He couldn't bring himself to care. If it were that important, she'd probably tell him later, during their shuffleboard match of the day. Eggs over here, eggs over there. Eggs over here. He couldn't do this.

"Are you going to eat that?" Maria asked, next to him. She'd finished her eggs, all right, within the first thirty seconds. Picked up the habit from boarding school, she'd told him. He was relieved it was nothing sinister.

"Haven't touched them." Doyle shoved the plate in her direction. "You can have them if you want." He picked up his toast, ate a few listless bites.

"Are you all right?" she asked, and the question was almost funny from someone who'd spent the past few days glaring at him. Talk about all right.

"Fine," Doyle managed, coughing as the dry toast stuck in his throat. "Just a little distracted today."

She helped herself to his eggs. "You know, if you weren't so glum," she said, waving a forkful at him, "I'd almost think you were in love." 

Doyle spluttered. "Love?" She hadn't seen him... pretending with Bodie, so whatever she was seeing wasn't for the benefit of the cover. Of course he loved Bodie, right? The man was his partner, his best friend. But he didn't _love_ Bodie. He couldn't. This was something else, a passing whim, a fancy, a mad idea that just stuck with him because all his other fantasies had become stale. The lure of the taboo. It would leave soon enough. You couldn't fall in love with men, he knew, regardless of what his cover was supposed to think on the matter. Ridiculous to even consider it.

She shrugged. "I'm wrong, then. Sorry I mentioned it."

* * *

Bodie stood in the doorway and held a square of paper out. Doyle plucked it from Bodie's fingers and read it:

_Nous demandons le plaisir de votre compagnie_

_ce mardi à 10 heures du soir_

_à Numero Six_

His invitation. "Merci beaucoup," Doyle said, because it needed saying.

"As I promised," Bodie said, sketching a bow. As he did, a small bag on his shoulder shifted with the change of weight.

Doyle pointed at it with his chin. "What have you got there?"

"I thought we might go on a picnic." Bodie grinned broadly; he was clearly enjoying seeing how much of the job he could talk about while undercover. Probably had binoculars or a camera or something in there. Doyle decided not to wonder where it might have come from; he suspected he'd prefer not to know.

"On the ship?" Doyle decided to play along.

"It's very romantic," Bodie assured him, the familiar glint in his eye doing an even better job assuring him that stakeouts were no such thing. And he'd thought last week that this op was going to be a holiday. He should have known he couldn't get away from the stakeouts.

Doyle bared his teeth in something that he hoped resembled a smile and not a predator's threat. "Sounds lovely."

Today's visit to the storerooms was, as lovely things went, substantially lovelier than the day before in that there was a distinct absence of forced kissing. He tried not to listen to the part of his mind telling him that that was a disadvantage. Bodie led him to a room on the opposite side of the stairwell from the corridor of interest. He eyed the wall interestedly as he entered—a long, tinted glass window ran a few feet along the corridor. Perfect. The room must have been repurposed from some previous use, but for now it would make a great vantage point. The bulkheads looked solid, enough, too—whatever they said would be inaudible from outside, and, thanks to the darkened glass, any observer would have to enter to know they were there.

Entering, Doyle found that this room held rows of familiar-looking padding.

"Life jackets?"

"They're needed." Bodie dragged over a pair of chairs and a small table from a corner. God knew why they were there in the first place. "The good thing is, they're not needed right now, so no one ought to be coming in to bother us unless the ship is actually sinking. This used to be a good place to sneak a smoke, but I found out that these days no one comes here, since they started keeping the emergency supplies here. Can't light up around some of this stuff. Here." He opened his bag and dropped a pair of binoculars into Doyle's hands. So much for the picnic.

"These are heavy," Doyle said, weighing them experimentally in his hands. "Where did you—no, never mind, I don't want to know. If some poor sod on watch doesn't see the iceberg before we hit it, I'll be blaming you, mate."

Bodie chuckled. "If there are icebergs around here, we've got bigger problems than my petty theft. Besides, I'm planning on returning them. Eventually."

Doyle squinted through the window. He couldn't see down the corridor they were watching, but he could see it open into the main hallway. They'd be able to see anyone coming and going from it.

"No one's in there now, are they?"

"No one's supposed to be," said Bodie, "but we both know how well that worked for us yesterday." He didn't have to say any more about it.

He turned and saw Bodie had fished a deck of cards out of the bag and was studiously setting up a game of cards. Probably solitaire. "Do I get a chance to play?"

"Later. You're on watch now." Bodie smiled crookedly.

"I'm not feeling the romance here, I have to say."

"Take it up with your boyfriend the cabin steward." That was a neat bit of compartmentalizing, Doyle thought. The Bodie who was pretending to fall in love with him was a different person entirely. Not here. 

"I plan on it," Doyle said, shortly, and turned back to the window.

An hour later, he'd watched Bodie cheat at solitaire four times when Bodie thought he wasn't looking—and who, except Bodie, would ever cheat at bloody solitaire? Bodie, of course, claimed complete innocence. To pass the time, he'd recounted how he'd lost every shuffleboard match with Gladys. Bodie had commiserated and told him in return an impressive variety of off-colour jokes he'd collected from the sailors. There was no sign of movement outside, not that he had expected there to be. What were the odds the assassin would pick today to wander by his weapons cache?

His stomach grumbled, loudly, and he wished he'd eaten more at breakfast.

"Hungry?" Bodie must have heard it.

"I am missing lunch for this, you know," he said, pretending to be deeply interested in trying to read the words stencilled on a faraway bulkhead.

There was the sound of more rustling from Bodie's direction; probably the sound of him putting the deck of cards away. Then came a few heavy thunks—more binoculars? Why would he take out more now?

"No, you're not," Bodie said quietly, and Doyle turned to look at him.

A red checked tablecloth was now spread on the table, with a heavy Thermos of tea in the middle. Bodie had laid two wrapped sandwiches next to it, one on each side, and he slowly reached over to push the closer one toward Doyle.

"I thought you were having me on about the picnic," he said, astonished, and Bodie laughed.

"I sweet-talked one of the cooks. Figured we'd miss a meal. For some reason they're under the impression I had fabulously romantic plans involving you," Bodie said blandly.

"Can't imagine why," Doyle said, pouring and then slurping a cup of tea.

"Could be because that's what I told them."

"Oh, could it?" He picked up the sandwich, started to unwrap it. "Did you bring me something fried?" he asked, suspiciously.

"Would I do that? Try it; you'll like it."

At this point, he was hungry enough to eat fried butter. He took a mouthful of the half of the sandwich he'd unwrapped. It was... good. "There's vegetables in this, Bodie," he accused. "There's even bean sprouts. I like it. Where's the trick?"

"Other half of it's a dead rat between two slices of burnt toast," Bodie said with a straight face. "Here I get you something you like, and such suspicion. I'm hurt." He wasn't any such thing, Doyle knew.

"Very funny coming from a bloke who's made me drink more horrible cocktails than I can count, this week alone." Doyle tried to scowl and not look like he was enjoying his sandwich, just to spite him, as Bodie bit into his. "What have you got, then?"

Bodie swallowed and looked blissful. "Chip butty. Want some?"

"You can keep that one all to yourself," he said, and he munched his sandwich contentedly. Sometimes, when Bodie wasn't being such a prat, it almost made sense that he could—no. He wasn't thinking about that. He certainly wasn't enjoying watching the satisfaction Bodie took from his food. He wasn't watching Bodie's tongue as he licked his lips. He was in no way aware of the little sighs of happiness the man made as he ate his artery-clogging nightmare. He wasn't —

Bodie was staring at him. "You're going to eat that, right? Don't you like it?" He looked concerned.

Doyle hastily took another bite of the sandwich. "No, no, it's very good. I was just—my mind was elsewhere." _Thinking about you_.

He finished his meal with no further lapses in attention and turned back to pick up the binoculars, only to find that Bodie had plucked them off the table.

"My turn to look alert. Go play some cards," he said, tossing the pack of cards in Doyle's general direction.

"I won't cheat," he said virtuously.

Unfortunately, he found out, not cheating made it positively boring, and it wasn't long before a game of Memory lost its allure as well. There were only so many card games one could play alone.

"Bored," he announced, as his third attempt at a house of cards fell over.

Bodie glanced at him. "I see that."

"Can I ask you a question?" Needling Bodie about his past was better than card games. He'd probably want to tell him some more Africa stories, now that they were off the coast of the bloody continent and all.

Bodie gave him a strange look, as he didn't usually bother asking permission. "Course you can. Can't promise I'll answer, though."

What should he ask? He opened his mouth, and the question came tumbling out, without him really needing to think about it. If he had thought about it, he wouldn't have asked. Too personal. Too close to the truth.

"How'd you know you were gay?"

Bodie lowered the binoculars slowly, gave him a long, considering look. "It's not a phase, you know." He sounded almost defensive, but at the same time like it was a formula, something he said to anyone who asked.

"I know," Doyle said, wondering why Bodie thought it had been an attack. Maybe it usually was. "I just wanted to know how. Curious, I guess." Probably not quite curious the way Bodie would think he meant, but he didn't have to know that.

"How'd you know you weren't gay?" Bodie countered.

Doyle stared at him and pressed his mouth shut before anything incriminating could slip out, like _I don't_ , _I'm not certain of that any more_ , or, rapidly growing in popularity, _Could you kiss me again_?

Thankfully, Bodie took the silence as a rhetorical point in his favour. Conversations were all about winning. "That's what I'm saying," he elaborated, although it wasn't especially helpful. "I was thirteen. It's not a difficult thing to know, you know, what turns you on."

Firmly repressing the part of himself that wanted to know more about what turned Bodie on, Doyle decided to make this a more intellectual discussion. "So you were gay before you'd done anything about it? You were sure?"

Bodie nodded. "I'll spare you the details. But if I'd been a virgin me whole life, I'd still be gay. Doesn't matter."

"I thought," Doyle fumbled for a way to describe it, "that it was about what you did with people. If you sleep with a bloke, you're gay. Right?"

"No. It's not what you do," Bodie said, rehearsed, like he'd explained all this before, had the patter memorised. "It's how you feel about it. Like how you knew you were straight before you ever had a bird, right?"

"Right," Doyle said, playing his part in the drama. Had he ever really thought about it? Maybe he'd just assumed there was only one choice. "So, if it's all about how they feel about it, there could be men who have it off with men, but don't think they're gay... and they're not?"

"Welcome to the merchant navy, sunshine. That's what we call a trade omi. Like your cover." Bodie snagged the cup away, poured himself the last of the tea. "Out here it doesn't matter what you call yourself, it matters who you're willing to fuck. Whether you're 'to be had' or 'not to be had,' as they say. Being gay's a separate thing. The rest of the world is, sadly, less than understanding about these fine points of terminology, and it thinks that if you go for men you must therefore be gay, always and forever. This is the world I grew up in, but you don't get far with that attitude on land."

"Can you have it the other way around as well?"

Bodie frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Suppose there's a bloke who's only ever been with women, right? Likes them and all." Doyle asked, staring at the tablecloth as if the pattern contained hidden wisdom. "But secretly maybe he's started to think about men. So if that's what he feels, does that make him gay by your rules? Even if he's never done anything but think? What would you call him?" _What would you call me_?

"Could be gay," Bodie said, thoughtfully. "Or bi. Depends on how he feels about birds. Mostly, I'd call him 'miserable,' because he's probably unhappy about it, if he thought he was happy being straight before." He was more right than he knew, wasn't he? "Miserable" more or less covered it.

"Does it matter who you fall in love with, blokes or birds? How about love?" What the hell had possessed him to ask that? Doyle wondered, but it was too late. The words were out.

The binoculars clattered on the table. Doyle hoped they hadn't broken.

"What kind of bloody question is that? If you want to play Truth or Dare again, I'd rather take the dare," Bodie said, suddenly belligerent. "Or, no, wait, here's a free answer: nothing about love. It doesn't matter. I don't have anything to do with it."

"You're going to tell me you've never fallen in love with anyone? In your entire life? That's sad, that's what it is."

"You've fallen in love with every bird you've been on a second date with," Bodie said. "Going to tell me that's not sad either?"

Doyle glared, clenched and unclenched his fists, counted to twenty, until he could breathe normally again. It wasn't true. And Bodie knew it wasn't. He was just saying it to get some of his own back. Because Bodie'd rather hurt him than talk about it. He should never have asked it.

"Three times." The words were so quiet that he thought at first he'd imagined Bodie saying it. "I've been in love three times. It was more than enough for me. One was—Krivas killed her. I told you. One was Marikka."

"The third one died too, I suppose?"

"The first one, you mean." Bodie's eyes were distant. "No, he's still alive, as far as I know."

"What, so you'll sleep with men but you won't fall in love with them? Other than the first one?" 

Bodie shook his head. "Not any more. Christ, Doyle, can we talk about something else?"

"All right," Doyle said, with relief. It had been a stupid thing to ask in the first place. Best to put it behind him. "Hold on." A sudden blur of motion caught his eye. "Someone's out there."

Bodie reached for the binoculars, but he didn't need them. "Ivanov."

As they watched, the purser strode confidently out of the corridor they had been staking out and up the stairs. Within half a minute, he was gone.

"Guess he was already in there." Doyle whistled. "It's a good thing we didn't go check."

"He's not on duty down here," Bodie said. "He's not on duty at all until this evening, and he wasn't yesterday, either."

"What I want to know is, what's he been doing over there for an hour? As we didn't see him come in, he has to have been there the whole time."

"Over an hour alone in rooms full of guns," Bodie said, more to himself than Doyle.

"How do you know he's alone?"

Bodie shrugged. "Haven't seen anyone else, have we? They'd have followed by now."

"Assassin," Doyle said, letting it hang in the air, saying it to see how the word sounded when applied to the purser. It sounded... plausible, actually. "What do you think?"

"Of the people who've done suspicious things, he's the most suspicious. And with three days left before we reach home, I think we'd better have someone. But short of him telling us he's an assassin, I don't see how we're going to have the opportunity to be any more certain. Also, it's not my call."

"What do you mean, not your call?" Why was Bodie refusing to join in on this?

"You're contacting the Cow," Bodie said as if this somehow meant Doyle was responsible for the entire decision. "Easiest for you to do it in cover. First class is always sending messages."

"You're my _partner_ ," Doyle said, feeling uneasy. "We're a team, and I'm not doing anything until it's what we've decided. Both of us. Not just me." Bodie knew how partnership worked. What was wrong with him? Why was he pulling away?

"Well, then, I haven't decided anything," he replied, and Doyle half-suspected him of saying it just to be contrary. "It doesn't matter when we tell Cowley as long as he has enough time to meet us at the pier with a team to take the assassin in. And that hardly takes long at all. We have the time to wait, and we might as well use it."

"Fine, then," Doyle said and stood up, abruptly. Bodie looked at him like he didn't understand in the slightest what might have upset him but was willing to go with it. Willing to drive him away. Something had gone wrong, and Doyle didn't know what it was. It couldn't be that Bodie'd figured out anything about him. He was being careful. Bodie didn't know. So what was it? Had it been all his stupid questions?

Bodie looked at him mildly. "Done with the stakeout, are you?"

"You're not?"

"Nah, think I'll stay. Our second-most-plausible suspect might come around the corner any minute." Oh, it was a decent reason, but Bodie didn't have to, and they both knew it.

"While you do that, I think I'll go see if Mr Smith wants to show me any more snaps. Of high explosives," he added.

Bodie, he was pleased to see, actually smiled, but only a little. "I'll pick you up at ten. Wear your dinner jacket."

"Suppose I'll leave it on after dinner, then," Doyle said, and he paused in the doorway, wishing helplessly that Bodie would say something normal, do something normal, let them be friends.

"All right."

Bodie's profile, even in the harsh lighting of the room, was beautiful. Sad, but beautiful. He wanted Bodie not to be sad. He wanted—things that wouldn't make Bodie happy, anyway, so what did it matter? He wished he'd never asked the stupid nosy questions.

"I'll put on my dancing shoes," he said, one last attempt at brightening the mood, before he pulled the door closed behind him. Maybe tonight would be better. Dancing was always a good time.

* * *

Maybe it was a day for everyone to do suspicious things, because, as it turned out, he couldn't find David Smith anywhere. Not in the reading room, not snapping photos of the promenade, not anywhere he could think to look. He even went by the man's room—not in. It wasn't just that, say, the man had been scandalised seeing him and Bodie together the other day, which was a possibility. But even if that were true, the man should still have been around. He should have been findable. Maybe he was off taking pictures of the engine room, or something.

Even stranger, when it came time for his standing shuffleboard appointment, Gladys wasn't there. He and Maria stared at each other, bewildered, until one of the men who'd refused to keep playing him the first day came over. Doyle squinted at him, trying to remember his name, and he decided this was the infamous Fred who wanted his meals unique.

"She's not here today," Fred grunted at them. "At the doctor's, she said."

Maria nervously put her hair back. "She is all right, isn't she? Did she slip and fall?"

"It'd be a shame if something happened to her," Doyle agreed. He hadn't realised how much he'd been looking forward to the rematch.

"Oh, nothing like that." Fred patted Maria on the shoulder, probably because Maria looked more like she needed the support. "It's a funny story, actually—one of the crew found her sleepwalking last night."

"Sleepwalking?" That was not what Doyle expected to hear in the least.

"To hear her tell it, she woke up last night somewhere in the middle of the ship, with one of the sailors shaking her, telling her to wake up. Frightened her half to death, she said. Said she'd never done anything like that before, and she was worried about her health, so she's having it looked at."

Maria looked a little less shaken. "Very sensible of her. I do hope she'll be all right."

"She told me to tell you she ought to be back tomorrow," the man said to Doyle.

"Thanks for letting us know," Doyle said, and it was back to him and Maria staring as the man left.

Maria lifted a cue. "Want to play anyway?"

"Certainly."

He beat Maria handily, of course. It was the first time he'd won a game since the day he'd arrived. But it wasn't the same, somehow.

* * *

After dinner, he'd left his dinner jacket on, as requested, and at ten o'clock precisely, someone knocked on his door.

When he opened it, Bodie brandished a handful of flowers at him, his arm held forward rigidly, as if he were holding some kind of weapon whose capabilities he didn't know. "Brought you flowers." The idea was solid, but in practice it ended up horribly awkward.

Doyle had to smile, and he tried to avoid brushing Bodie's fingertips as he gathered up the bouquet in both hands. "How romantic of you."

"Yeah, well, thought I'd do it proper-like," Bodie muttered. It wasn't something his cover would say, Doyle thought—it was something he might say himself. Had Bodie forgotten he hadn't checked the room? As long as they were flirting, did it matter who they were? At least Bodie seemed to be in a better mood than he had earlier. Doyle resolved not to ask him any more personal questions.

"Let me find a vase," Doyle said, and spied an empty one on the table. Perfect. He frowned. "I thought this one had flowers in it this morning."

"Oh, did it?" Bodie's tone was much too innocent, and Doyle figured it out and started laughing.

"You brought me my own flowers, you berk! It's not romantic if you steal them and give them back."

"More romantic than no flowers," Bodie countered, "or so I've been told."

Doyle eyed Bodie, who, it appeared, was wearing his own dinner jacket. "I was worried you were going to show up in a dress."

"I considered it," Bodie said, in a perfectly normal tone of voice, like drag was a reasonable thing for anyone to consider, "but I would have had to borrow too much, and it's never really been my scene. Can't walk in heels. That, and," he mumbled the last statement to the floor, "I didn't want to worry you."

"Thanks," Doyle said, suddenly, pathetically grateful for the fact that Bodie was trying to protect him from this strange world. He should have resented it, but maybe the less he saw, the less it would affect him. "Shall we go?"

"Hang on," Bodie said, fishing a daisy out of the vase. "You should wear a flower. Hold still." Doyle held still, obligingly, while Bodie settled the flower in his buttonhole. "There."

He looked down at himself, daisy on his chest. It wasn't half bad. "You like it?"

"Very dapper figure, you are," Bodie assured him, patting him on the shoulder. "I'll be the envy of the ball with you on my arm, ducky," he added, leading him toward the door.

"On your arm? You're leading?" The assumption bothered Doyle. One of them had to lead in a dance, he told himself. Why shouldn't it be Bodie? But he couldn't just let Bodie. How did men decide, anyway? Maybe it would have been easier if Bodie had shown up in drag. At least he'd have had more of an idea of how he was supposed to behave.

"Figure of speech." Bodie must have seen how ill at ease it made him and squeezed his arm reassuringly as they walked down the corridor. "You can lead if you want. Or we can take turns. It's up to you. Whatever you're comfortable with."

He could be brave. It was just dancing, and in a roomful of men no one was going to look askance at him. "I'll try it," he said. "Hands above the waist, mind you."

"All right, spoilsport. Quiet now," Bodie told him, pulling him through an entirely different "Crew Only" door than the ones he'd seen before. "This is the part where we try not to get caught."

Doyle shut up as Bodie led him through a wandering maze of corridors, to his eye identical to everywhere else belowdecks Bodie had taken him, but Bodie definitely knew where he was going. Of course he did. It had been his home. They stopped a few times, ducked into smaller side corridors as solitary officers passed them. After a while Doyle became aware of a growing swell of conversation somewhere ahead of them, the sound of recorded music. Bodie didn't look apprehensive about this like he had about the other sounds, so this one must have been expected.

"Your soiree, I take it," he said quietly.

Bodie nodded. "Right in Peak 6. Home sweet home. We've expanded into the neighbouring two peaks, one next door, one across the corridor. You'll see. Ready?"

"Ready," he said, and they turned the corner.

* * *

Nothing Bodie had told him could have prepared him for the actual experience. It was, in its most basic form, a party, of course—people were clustering in the corridor, drinks in hand, talking and laughing, and as he passed one of the cabins, the one where the music was loudest, he could see pairs of people spinning across the floor. 

The details, of course, made it different. Everyone here was a man, and most of them were, as Bodie would have told him, fabulous. There were, of course, queens in elaborate makeup, wigs, long slinky dresses, but this represented only one extreme. There were men in dresses who made absolutely no effort to look convincing but who leaned against doorways in their gold lamé, hairy legs and all, like they owned the place. A few men in dinner jackets were nonetheless wearing full-face makeup, in garish colours, bright, glittery, and exotic. Some people hadn't even dressed up at all, it seemed, except to sling a feather boa over their t-shirts. Doyle had expected order, rules—all or nothing, butch or femme—and he wasn't quite sure how to interpret this happy free-for-all, where people were wearing whatever they wanted, acting however they wanted with absolute disregard for anything except whether it made them happy. It was—it was almost appealing. The people who lived here could be anything they wanted.

As Bodie led him into the heart of the crowd, their path was blocked by one of the glam-faced men, glittery blue eye shadow all the way up to his eyebrows.

"Bodie! You made it!" the man said, pressing a bright-red lipsticked kiss on his cheek and throwing his arms around him ebulliently.

"I live here!" Bodie yelled back, extricating himself from the man's clutches. "Couldn't very well not come, could I?"

"Could have stayed with your trade," the man replied, finally seeming to see Doyle for the first time. "Very bona, but the trade omis don't usually go for these events, do they?" They certainly had a set idea about how he was supposed to behave, Doyle noted. For that matter, they all had no problem classifying him.

"He's special," Bodie said, sounding almost prideful, and the man laughed.

"And you thought you'd dress straight for him? You are too butch for this party, my dear. We'll have to do something about that." He grabbed Bodie by the arm, began to lead him toward one of the cabins.

Bodie tried to pull away, laughing. "Oi, I'm not the only one dressed like this. Ray's just as butch as I am, aren't you?" he appealed.

"He's not an omi-palone," the man informed Bodie, then turned to Doyle. "It's all right, dearie, I'll have her back in a minute, just prettier. What dolly green orbs you have. Maybe I'll do something coordinating."

Doyle watched in a sort of fascination as the two of them disappeared through the swirling mass of people, into the cabin. Hopefully whatever it was Bodie would get wasn't going to be too... frightening.

Behind him, someone nudged him, and he turned to find a queen, a glass of red wine in either hand, pressing one into his.

"Er," Doyle said, inarticulate. Was this a come-on?

The queen laughed, and under the makeup he could see that she was much older than he'd thought. Old enough to be someone Bodie had known. "Easy, now. Thought you might like a drink. I'm not about to court you; it'd break Bodie's heart, it would. And we all like him too much to do that. Can tell how much he loves you."

"Oh," Doyle said, still on monosyllables, and he sipped the wine to see if it would make him more capable of speech. "He loves me?" It was for the cover, of course, it wasn't true. Bodie didn't do that. But he could pretend.

The queen gave him an odd look. "He'd never say so, of course. Never used to, at least. But it's clear how he looks at you, isn't it?" It wasn't, really; Doyle hadn't noticed much out of the ordinary other than the camp and the ridiculous flirting. That wasn't love. What were all these people seeing?

"I don't think it's clear at all," Doyle said. Bodie couldn't love him. He'd said.

"He does," she insisted. "Enjoy your drink."

Doyle took a sip. "Very nice. And a lovely party this is, too."

"Don't thank me," she said, modestly. "Thank your lover and his roommates. Mostly your lover, actually. We were going to have one of these sooner or later, but he insisted on sooner." Bodie'd probably thought it would be a good opportunity to meet potential suspects. At least, that's what he would have done if it had been him. Or maybe he just liked these parties and wanted to be able to go to one. Why should there be only one reason?

"Oh, I plan on thanking him profusely." Doyle grinned and took another sip. Let other people think what they liked about that.

"I recommend fellatio," she said, sounding almost prim, and Doyle nearly choked on his wine. "And, oh, there's Bodie now. Vada her dolly eke." Whatever that meant.

Doyle turned again, and saw Bodie coming back, an expression of suffering on his face. His made-up face. He'd been thinking Bodie would end up a parody of feminine, but whatever the man had done to him only intensified his good looks. A few shadows were darker, his face more defined. A slight hint of glitter ran above his eyes, making them look even more blue. It was beautiful and strange at the same time.

"Sorry," Bodie whispered in his ear, once he'd come close enough. "This is the minimum amount they'd let me get away with. I can go wipe it off."

"Don't," Doyle said, just as quietly, and then wondered where that had come from. He lifted his free hand to Bodie's face, and his fingertips came back glittery. "I like it."

Bodie curled an arm around him and gave him a perfectly charming smile. The world narrowed to the two of them. "All right, then."

"Isn't young love grand?" the queen put in, and Doyle jumped. He'd almost forgotten there were other people there.

"I'm not as young as I used to be," Bodie muttered, and snagged the half-empty wineglass out of Doyle's hand, taking what looked to Doyle's eye like a fortifying gulp. Waste of perfectly good wine.

"You'll always be young to me," she replied. "Enjoy your party," she added, before gliding off.

Bodie finished off the wine. "Was she giving you a hard time?" The question was oddly gentle.

Doyle shook his head. "No. Just thought I needed a drink, I guess. Looks like you needed it more." He looked sourly over at the empty goblet.

"Plenty more where that came from," Bodie said, "so don't look so sad."

Another glass later, the sadness had been entirely forgotten. Bodie was looking better and better, as well, but it wasn't because he had been drinking. He had the annoying suspicion that the drink was making it easier for him to think about it, which was precisely what he didn't want.

"More?" Bodie asked, and Doyle shook his head. "Okay."

"How about dancing? Didn't get to dance last night, did we?"

Bodie smiled at him again. "No, we didn't. The dancing's over in my cabin. Here, let me take you back to my place." Doyle poked him in the arse, which, upon reflection, was probably not the best reprimand for that joke. "Now there's the spirit, ducky."

For such a small space, the cabin contained a lot of people, was Doyle's first impression. It was a space that should have been oppressive—small, grey-walled, practically claustrophobic—if not for the fact that a group of people had clearly been on a mission to make it their home. There were photos, posters, and even handwritten notes tacked up everywhere. It helped.

There was a smallish central area, packed with couples trying not to waltz into each other, and four alcoves, each of which had a large curtain tied back next to them, as the only concession to the privacy of the occupants. Bodie'd been right when he said there wasn't much. Three of the alcoves held beds—one was empty, and there stood the cassette player, next to a chair and a small table, filled to the edges with bottles. But didn't Bodie have three roommates? Four people should live here. He looked again, and saw that one of the alcoves had two beds, pushed next to each other, sticking out a bit over where the brightly-decorated curtain would extend if it were shut. Oh. That must be Hull and Rutter's bunk.

One bunk was barer than the rest, lacking any of the touches that made the others seem more like a place someone lived. Bare walls, nothing out of place, an unadorned curtain. No wonder Bodie spent so much time at his cabin; this was depressing. It was true that he wasn't planning to stay long, but he could at least make it look welcoming, Doyle thought.

"Bet I know which bunk's yours," he said, speculatively.

"I won't take that bet." Bodie chuckled. 

"You couldn't have even decorated your curtain there?"

Bodie blinked at him. "What, the trade curtain? Didn't really have time for sewing, darling," he camped.

"Do I want to know why it's called a trade curtain?" Doyle asked, with an uncomfortable feeling that it was somehow related to the name he'd been called.

"Probably not," Bodie said, then told him anyway. "For privacy, such as it is, when you bring a bit of trade back home."

"What privacy?" He snorted, looking around the crowded room.

"At least they can't see in," Bodie pointed out. "They pretend they're not listening. You get used to it."

Doyle shuddered. "I wouldn't." Voyeurs? The very thought made his skin crawl.

"Don't worry, you won't have to." The reply was quick, as if Bodie felt he needed instant reassurance. "So, you wanted to dance?"

They looked at each other. Should he lead? Should Bodie? Should they just see what happened?

"Mr Bodie!" a voice called out, effusive. The voice's owner turned out to be Arthur from the club, whose drag was just as ineffective as the night before, when they'd met him—a shawl and a feather boa couldn't fool anyone with that collared shirt. Maybe he wasn't really trying. "Thank you so much for inviting me!"

"Arthur," Bodie said smoothly, showing no sign that he was in any way disappointed not to be dancing. "Glad you're enjoying yourself. Did your Jim show up?"

Arthur pouted. "Not yet." So much for checking out that possibility.

"Well, if he doesn't," Doyle put in, trying to be diplomatic, "I'm sure you'll find someone who'll appreciate you." There were enough people here—one of them ought to.

"Do you think so?" Arthur seemed to brighten a little at the idea of it.

But neither of them could reply, as they were soon interrupted by another voice. "Hello, boys." The voice was sultry, elegant, classy, tinged with an attempt at an American accent, the kind from old films, and Doyle looked up to see a queen the likes of which he'd never seen before. She wore a long red dress, slit up the side, and she wore it with the sort of glamour Doyle associated with the starlets of the 1940s. She had long blond hair, drooping artfully over one of her eyes in a way Doyle thought he ought to recognise, but he couldn't quite place it.

Bodie smiled, clearly recognising her. "Aren't you the glamorous one?"

"Every day, darling." The queen laughed, melodically. "Going to introduce me to your friends, Bodie?" she asked, her ruby-red lips curving in Doyle and Arthur's direction.

"You already know both of them," Bodie said, which was ridiculous, because Doyle certainly didn't. 

The queen pouted. "But they don't know _me_ , darling."

"All right, all right." He motioned Doyle forward. "Veronica, this is Ray Doyle, the love of my life." He was joking. He was absolutely joking. Even in the cover, he was joking, but that didn't stop Doyle's heart from racing. He swallowed, carefully didn't look at Bodie, and tried to hear the rest of the introduction over the pounding in his head. "Ray," Bodie continued, unruffled, "this is Veronica. Veronica Lake."

Lake? Veronica Lake, like the actress? Lake, like Bodie's roommate? The queen stared deeply into his eyes, and now that he knew he could see the resemblance, but, still, the transformation was impressive. What was he supposed to say in this situation? Do? The usual etiquette never covered this situation. _Treat her like Veronica Lake_. The obvious answer occurred to him, suddenly. _She's glamorous. Treat her like she wants to be treated_.

Gallantly, Doyle took her hand, gloved to the elbow in velvet, and pressed it lightly to his lips. "Enchanté, mademoiselle." It seemed the appropriate thing to do.

"Lovely to meet you as well," Veronica murmured. "You certainly know how to treat a lady." She giggled a little. "I like this one, Bodie. You should keep him."

"I'm planning on it," Bodie said, and Doyle stepped back to let Arthur forward. 

"But who is this pretty thing here?" she asked, turning to Arthur.

"Veronica, this is Arthur. Arthur, Veronica."

Arthur shifted nervously, practically blushing, and copied Doyle's gesture, albeit much more awkwardly. Veronica smiled at him and stroked his cheek with her gloved fingers. He blushed even more.

"Arthur there's single," Doyle volunteered. "I think he could use some company."

"Oh, could you, dear boy?" the queen purred at Arthur.

He nodded, spasmodically, and practically stammered. "Would you like to dance?"

"Of course," Veronica breathed, and she let herself be swept onto the dance floor. Arthur's shyness did not, it seemed, extend to the actual act of dancing. "You two should join us," she called over her shoulder as Arthur spun her. "It's marvellous."

Doyle had to laugh, watching, not because it was funny but because it was _fun_. There was something to be said for being fabulous, and he'd never quite understood it before, had always found it frightening. But it was so joyful. He thought he was beginning to see how Bodie had enjoyed his time here so much.

He turned back, and saw that Bodie was holding out a hand, smiling, his eyes sparkling sapphire in the light. "May I have this dance, Ray?"

Doyle had to smile back, and took his hand. "Certainly."

The tape deck was playing something mid-tempo Doyle didn't recognise. They swung out onto the floor anyway, his arms around Bodie's neck, Bodie's hands at his waist, as Bodie led him into a basic box step, nothing fancy.

"You can have the next one, if you want," Bodie leaned close to mutter in his ear.

"I can wait," Doyle replied, truthfully. "You're a good dancer."

And it was true; he was. For all that he hadn't been confident about his abilities at the club, Bodie turned out to be amazing at ballroom. He led Doyle confidently across the floor, and Doyle moved with him, perfectly coordinated. He'd thought he would have pushed Bodie, tried to lead out of habit, but every move Bodie made was one he would have made anyway. They were matched. When that song was over, they kept dancing, and Doyle found out that Bodie could waltz and foxtrot with the best of them, with the same panache. He almost wondered why he'd never noticed this before, but then caught himself—of course he wouldn't. He hadn't danced with Bodie before, not like this. The CI5 events always had birds, of course.

The waltz ended, and the next song on the tape was, suddenly, swing, fast and boisterous, a little out of place at this elegant event. For the first time Bodie paused, looked abashed. "I never learned to jitterbug."

"I did," Doyle said. They couldn't just sit this one out. Ballroom was nice and all, but it didn't get you _moving_. He put his hand in the middle of Bodie's back, pulled him closer. "I'll lead. Here, arm around my shoulder." He grabbed Bodie's other hand, arm extended—why not start out dancing closed? It wasn't like there was that much room. "Lindy Hop. Eight-count," he added for Bodie's benefit; maybe if he could think of something quantifiable about it he'd like it better.

Bodie copied his footwork, warming up to it as they went, and Doyle could feel the energy moving through them. This was more like it. He could feel Bodie relax, his back loosening, Bodie's hand no longer clenching his, and he knew that Bodie was getting into it. 

The dance floor seemed less crowded—maybe the other dancers weren't as confident as they were—and Doyle judged, over Bodie's shoulder, that there was enough room to start getting fancy. "We'll try a swing out," he said, and Bodie nodded slightly against his shoulder with an air of determination, like it was some kind of obstacle course. Which, in a sense, it was.

One, two. Step back. Three, four. Turn. Five. Send your partner out. He pushed, gently, and Bodie went gracefully away from him. Six. He spun Bodie perfectly, like they'd been practicing for ages, like Bodie knew exactly what to do. Seven, eight. Together.

Bodie laughed joyfully in his arms as he returned. "Again!"

He swung Bodie out again, and again, and again, almost dizzy with the excitement of it. The song ended, and he sagged against Bodie, drained from the exertion, as the dancers around them clapped. They'd been the only ones left.

"Time for a break," he said, and against him Bodie nodded.

"I didn't know you could dance like that," Bodie told him, sounding almost awed, as they left the dance floor, moving to the less crowded side of the cabin.

Doyle laughed, jubilant, high on endorphins. "Couldn't have done it without you, mate."

Bodie snagged two glasses off the table and handed him one. "Look over there. True love." Lake and Arthur were gazing into each other's eyes as they shuffled around the dance floor.

"I feel proud." Doyle leaned against the wall and sipped his wine.

* * *

After that, they didn't dance again, but the party remained nonetheless exciting. The dancing gradually dwindled away and was replaced by conversation of a more informal nature. There were so many people here who had known Bodie, and they all wanted to come by and share their stories with him, ask if he remembered this incident or that. And of course, Bodie remembered them all, introducing each one to Doyle in turn.

It was just as Rutter was wrapping up a story about a particularly interesting time on leave somewhere in Australia that Doyle looked around and realised that the soiree was long over. Somewhere along the line his jacket and tie had come off, and so had Bodie's. They were sitting on the floor, backs against the bulkhead, and Bodie's head was pressed against his shoulder, smearing glitter on his shirt. Bodie gestured with a wineglass that had been empty for hours.

There were a few people talking in the hallway, but all the guests in the room had left, leaving the usual post-party detritus in their wake—empty bottles, empty glasses, an unclaimed shirt or two. Rutter was over here with them, of course, telling the story. Hull had made occasional comments from the bunk. The only other people left were Lake and Arthur, who were sitting on the far side of the room, kissing in a slow, distracted sort of way, clearly more than a little drunk. At some point in the evening Lake's wig had come off. Arthur didn't seem to care.

"Well, it was lovely having you here, Ray," Rutter said, yawning, "but I think it's time for the party to be over. It's getting late. Or early." What time was it, anyway? How long had they been here?

Next to him, Bodie slowly lumbered to his feet. "I'd better walk Ray back to his cabin."

"Aww, not staying?" This last, a slurred comment from Lake, sounding much less glamorous now.

"The first class beds are nicer," Doyle said apologetically, and he stood up himself, ready to find his jacket and make an exit. 

"Hold on." He was stopped by the comment from Hull, who sat up in his bunk to look at both of them. "It's 0330."

Bodie's face seemed to go a shade paler. "That late?" Somehow the time was significant. "I thought it was much earlier. That means—" He trailed off, but the look in his eyes was beginning to shade toward panic. What was going on?

"Comrade Ivanov's on duty," Rutter said. "Until 0400."

"If he catches me—and given where he'll be it's unavoidable," Bodie said, looking almost sickly, "he'll have me off the ship tomorrow, he's said so. I'd like to avoid that."

"So you can't go up with him," Hull rumbled from the bed. "Ray can go by himself. He can find his way back."

"I can't," Doyle realised, suddenly, and said as much. "He's seen me with Bodie—he caught us yesterday. He'd recognise me, and then he'd know Bodie'd been doing something he shouldn't, sneaking me down here, and he'd have him off the ship anyway."

Bodie looked at him as he said that, a quick flash of—despair?—but then he covered it, clearly trying as hard as he could to project some sense of normality. Something was going on here. His mind was thinking slowly; he knew there was something he should remember, something he should know.

"You'll have to stay here for a bit then, Ray," Rutter told him, matter-of-fact.

Hull chuckled at them from his bed. "I'm certain you two can find some way to occupy the time."

It was then that Doyle understood what the look on Bodie's face meant. Oh, God. No. Here they were, pretending to be two blokes in love, blokes who'd found themselves with some free time, and the usual thing, the expected thing, the only possible thing to do was—was —

Sex. He'd have to have sex with Bodie. For the people they were pretending to be, it would be damned strange if they didn't. So they had to. Right now. He was shaking, he realised, distantly. There was a difference between having thoughts, between thinking that maybe Bodie was attractive, and having no choice in the matter.

With Bodie's back to the rest of the room, only Doyle could see his face. "I'm sorry," Bodie mouthed. It wasn't his fault. Doyle didn't blame him. The strange set of circumstances had conspired to bring this about, and Bodie was caught in it too. They'd—they'd do what they had to do. With everyone _listening_ , oh God...

Bravely, Doyle forced a smile, and Bodie came closer, put a hand on his arm, started to guide him back to his bunk. His hand was shaking too.

"You going to fuck on the floor over there?" came Lake's drunken, interested question, and Bodie winced.

Bodie must have had hidden reserves of strength, because he summoned up an in-character response. "I prefer having it off in my bunk, actually." He managed to finish with the sort of excited wanton smile someone who was really in his position might give, the sort of thing Doyle's cover was probably supposed to enjoy.

"Don't be a voyeur, _Veronica_ ," Rutter said, grabbing a deck of cards off the table in the unused alcove and raising it invitingly at Arthur and Lake. "Come here, you two, and you can play cards while you snog; _you're_ clearly not up for anything else." He gave Bodie an encouraging sort of look. This must have been what Bodie meant when he said they pretended they weren't listening.

He let Bodie push him backwards, thoughts running round in panicked circles, until the backs of his legs touched Bodie's bunk, and he sat down. Bodie gave one more undercover leer for good measure, though his eyes were shadowed, then stood up and ostentatiously pulled the curtain for his bunk closed. Trade curtain. And here they were, using it for its intended purpose.

With the trade curtain shut, the bunk was much darker. Stranger. A strange place, where anything could happen. It wasn't supposed to be like this. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. Not like this. Not in a cramped, bare bunk. Not with four people out there pretending not to listen. Not when Bodie didn't even like him like that.

"I can't do this," he said, feeling terror rise within him. Bodie had promised. Safe as houses, he'd said. But this—wasn't safe. Wasn't going to be safe. It would change him. A week ago, he'd have laughed at the very possibility, but now? He'd wake up tomorrow, and who would he be? Who was the person who would do this? He understood, suddenly, what Bodie had meant the night before about being lost, about the op changing him. He would be different, unknown, and it was terrifying.

Bodie's arms went round him, a source of comfort and fear in equal parts.

"Shh. It's okay."

"I can't," he said again, helplessly, barely remembering to keep his voice down.

One of Bodie's hands was stroking his hair, he noted, as if it were happening to someone else.

"You can." The kindness in Bodie's voice nearly broke him. "We can. It's easy. Easiest thing in the world, sunshine. Come here."

Something snapped within him, then, and he turned his face blindly toward Bodie, opened his mouth, and they were kissing, desperately, clinging to each other. He felt Bodie's hands lock in his hair, hold his head still, and he couldn't like this, it couldn't be a thing he could like. It was wrong, submitting, being done _to_. It was—it was turning him on something fierce. He couldn't quite stop himself from moaning.

"Better make some noise," he breathed against Bodie's jaw, as Bodie was absolutely silent. "If we—if we have to do this for them, they ought to be able to tell."

Bodie nodded ever so slightly and kissed him again, and now _he_ was moaning against Doyle's mouth, loud, incoherent, the vibrations shaking through both of them. It was nothing like any noise women ever made, low and very unmistakably Bodie, and somehow the sound of Bodie enjoying himself was turning him on more than anything he could ever remember.

His erection was pressing insistently against his trousers, and now Doyle was the one who fell silent. Bodie was going to notice, he was going to know how Doyle felt, he couldn't hide. It was one thing to have to do this for the op—if it had been anyone else, any other mission, he'd have had to think up a few favourite fantasies first, get himself going eventually, lie back and think of England. But this wasn't just for the op. He wanted this. He wanted Bodie.

Bodie leaned on him, lowered him back on to the bed. "Shh, see, it's all right," he was whispering, between kisses. "All you have to do is lie here." 

He was half-curled on Doyle now, almost on top of him, and he had to be able to tell how hard Doyle was, how much he wanted it, wanted Bodie to touch him anywhere, everywhere.

Doyle had to do something. He reached out, slid a hand between their bodies, down to Bodie's trousers, and unzipped. Through the thin layer of fabric underneath, Bodie was alive in his hand, as hard as he was. It ought to frighten him, touching another man. He felt perfectly calm, almost unreal. Above him Bodie shuddered, took a sharp, surprised-sounding breath, and was suddenly very still.

"Ray." He spoke hoarsely, pained, as if the words were killing him to say. "You don't have to do that, you know. We can just—"

"I know." Doyle interrupted him. He couldn't very well lie here and not do anything, let Bodie do it all, not when he wanted so much. "I want to. I want to touch you. I want to do this." There. He'd said it, and Bodie could make of it what he would.

A long pause. A quiet laugh, warm breath against his ear making him shiver. "Well. That certainly changes things."

"I've wanted to for a while," Doyle said, to see how he would feel about it once he'd said it. It was true. How long had he wanted, but not known? Had he always?

Bodie pulled his head back and looked at him, pure amazement. "Christ. You're not having me on, are you? Tell me you're not joking, Ray. Tell me."

"Not joking." And he was changing already, because the words started to tumble out of him, raw, honest, things he didn't even know he felt. "Won't say I'm not scared, but not joking. Can't stop thinking about you. And anything we do now, it'll be different anyway, and I have to know, Bodie, I have to. I want this."

"Are you sure?" Bodie's voice was low, rough with lust, and his eyes were wide and dark, only the merest sliver of blue at the edges.

What choice did they have? But if he'd had the choice, anyway, he would have done it, he would do it again, a thousand times the same choice. Because he wanted—he wanted —

"Yes."

Bodie smiled at him, teeth flashing white in the darkness, and gave a quiet, almost nervous chuckle. "Don't have to tell me twice," Bodie muttered, before his mouth came down on Doyle's again, and fire rose and burned through him.

Bodie'd told him enough about his adventures with the fairer sex that Doyle was very sure of how it ought to go with him. It would be a polished, consummate seduction, every move precisely calculated to arouse. Nothing unnecessary. And with blokes, fewer things were necessary, right? Bodie'd probably only bother to unzip his trousers. If it was all he could have, he'd take it and be grateful for even that much.

What he got was Bodie unbuttoning his shirt, slowly, hesitantly, tracing shaking fingers down his chest, dropping a line of kisses along his collarbone, whispering broken phrases that certainly didn't sound rehearsed.

"God, Ray, so beautiful. Want you so much—always—always wanted—"

They weren't words you said when you were pretending to be someone else. He'd fucked enough birds for ops to know that. You did the job, and that was it. No sense in lying more than you had to. These were words you meant when you said them, words you said to people you cared about.

It seemed that he hadn't been the only one keeping secrets, he thought. Then Bodie kissed him again, caressed him, and he forgot his thoughts entirely.

He felt a spike of panic when Bodie's hands made it to his waist, started fumbling with the fastenings of his trousers. He must have frozen, then, stopped moving, stopped breathing, because Bodie stopped too, sat back and looked at him, just looked at him. His face wore an excited, determined smile, his eyes wide and nervous. Bodie was nervous too. And he was still fully-clothed, Doyle thought stupidly. Bodie was working on getting him out of everything, giving away nothing. He would lie here bare, and Bodie would do it all without ever letting anything slip.

"Hey," came Bodie's voice softly, and one of his roving hands reached out to stroke Doyle's face, full of a tenderness he'd never suspected the man capable of, a side he'd never seen him use with birds, certainly. "It's all right. If you don't want to, we can—"

If he didn't want to? They had to. "I want to," he repeated.

"All right." Bodie smiled a little at him. "It'll be okay. It's just me here, eh?"

But it wasn't just him. "There's four other people out there," Doyle said, and he was appalled to hear his voice start to choke up.

"They don't matter. Forget about them," Bodie said intensely, as if the more he meant it the more he could make Doyle believe it. "Just us. We can do this, if it's what you want."

Doyle reached out, tugged at Bodie's shirt. "You're still wearing clothes," he said, and as he said that Bodie's face relaxed, like he understood the worry Doyle hadn't even voiced.

"Oh, is that all it is?" he said, and in an instant he'd somehow slipped off his shirt, and, then, a bit later, everything else, wriggling out of his clothes. "Here you go. Here's me, then." And Bodie, his partner, a man who wore long sleeves and high-necked shirts all year round, was lying next to him, completely naked, the look in his eyes strangely vulnerable.

The feelings he had felt the other day seeing Bodie returned full force, doubled, tripled, a current powerful enough to pull him under, and he grabbed Bodie close, held him, kissed him, feeling the intoxicating heat of skin against skin. He couldn't remember ever wanting anyone this much, and he was lost in it.

Bodie's hands slipped round his waist, dipping tentatively under his waistband. "Want to make it even?" he whispered in his ear.

He couldn't think of a reason to protest any more. He wasn't afraid, he realised. It would be good. Better than good. He nodded, found Bodie's mouth, and somehow the rest of his clothes slid off him.

Now what should they do? He didn't have much time to wonder before Bodie pulled him close, arched up against him. Bodie's cock rubbed against his leg, and God, what kind of a strange turn-on was that? They could just do this, touch each other, and that would be enough. Bodie pushed against him, harder; he thrust back.

In the back of his mind, he had thought that perhaps sex with Bodie would be bad. Or, if not bad, at least awkward. After all, he'd never had sex with a man; he didn't know what men liked in general, just what he liked. Who was to say Bodie would like what he liked? It had been a reasonable theory, and it would probably have been correct, even, had he been sleeping with anyone other than Bodie. But he knew every move that Bodie made before he made it. Without even thinking about it, he knew he had to move his hand like so, thrust his hips this way, kiss exactly this spot on Bodie's neck. It was like when they were on an op, and when Bodie looked at him he saw the entire plan of attack in his head and knew deep inside him where Bodie would be at every moment, how he would move, when he would shoot. It was that connection, ten thousand times magnified, reflected between the two of them, a closed circle, and he knew that he was transformed as Bodie brought his hands down upon him.

He worked a hand between them, circled Bodie's cock with his fist. Here he was, touching another man. Nothing to be scared of. Nothing so different. Like touching himself, really, except as he did it was Bodie who sighed, pressed even closer to him.

"Like that," Bodie was whispering, heavily, full of breath. "So good. Just like that."

And somehow knowing that he was doing this to Bodie, that Bodie _liked_ it, was more arousing than anything else. Hands slick, bodies slippery, eyes closed, he thrust against Bodie and slid, and somehow they lined up, both of them in his hand, and he gasped helplessly and stroked them both. Bodie shifted a bit, next to him, and then Bodie's hand was there too, helping, guiding, exploring, wrapped around his hand, sliding along both their lengths. He hadn't known, the thought ran through his head, he hadn't known it could be like this, so _right_ that they could move together.

Bodie was close, he knew—God, they both were—as Bodie's breathing started to run ragged, as the fingers gliding along his cock tightened, moved faster. He opened his eyes, and the look on Bodie's face, entranced, ecstatic, was almost enough to make him come by itself. Bodie's eyes, all dark now, focused on his lips, and Bodie's mouth, red and wet, opened slackly.

He needed to be kissed, Doyle knew instantly, as sure of it as if it were his own desire. Moving closer, his mouth met Bodie's, sealed on it. Bodie relaxed against his lips, opening his mouth, groaning against him with every stroke of his hand. Doyle flicked his tongue out, licked along Bodie's bottom lip, then into his mouth, and that was it, Bodie was gone.

Shaking against him, Bodie came in their combined hands, gasping against his mouth, pulses of warmth against his stomach, and nothing he had ever done in his life had been hotter than this.

He couldn't hold out any longer. Bodie's fingers squeezed on him, tighter, tighter, exactly perfect, and the wave of pleasure crested, almost unbearable, and broke. Helplessly, he cried out, a wordless exclamation of joy, thrusting up, coming, spilling into Bodie's hands as Bodie kissed him. His hands were sure, knowing, gentle on him, slowing and taking him through the trailing moments of bliss.

Bodie mouthed something, silently, a word he couldn't make out—tongue behind his teeth, then lowered, jaw open for a bit before his mouth closed, top teeth touching his kiss-reddened lower lip. Doyle could only smile at him, dazed, and Bodie kissed him again. It was so good, it was so right, it all fit.

Bodie held him tighter, then pulled back and frowned, concerned. "Are you all right, Ray? You're shaking."

Was he? He didn't know how he felt. Were there words for any of it?

"I'm—I'm—"

From beyond the curtain someone began to clap, and there was a loud, drunken-sounding cheer.

The mood shattered, euphoria replaced with icy panic. They weren't alone. It hadn't been just them. The world was here, and the world would judge them for it, and oh God, what had he just done?

"Fuck off!" Bodie yelled roughly. "It's not a free show! Mind your own fucking business!" His arms went even tighter around Doyle then, as if he could protect him from the rest of the world. But he couldn't. It was too late. 

"Let me up! Get off me!"

He pushed at Bodie, frantic, and Bodie, still boneless with lassitude, released him, arms falling open. He rose up, scrambled on the floor for his trousers, his pants, his shoes, his shirt.

"Ray, don't do this." Bodie's voice was laced with terror, and he tried not to think about it, didn't look at him as he pulled his trousers on. "Don't do this to me. Please."

"I've got to get out of here." He had to. He couldn't stay here and face this, be the person who had done this. It was past four by now, surely, the cover would be all right. The cover? Wasn't a cover any more, at any rate.

He stood up, praying his shaking legs would hold him, pulling his shirt over his head, and he narrowly avoided the grab he knew Bodie would be making for his arm—their connection, ironically, working for him still now.

"Come back," Bodie pleaded, voice raw, and Doyle pushed around the curtain, moving quickly. He had to leave, now, fast.

"No."

He was almost at the door, trying not to look at the rest of the room, when he heard the noise of the curtain behind him sliding back. Despite himself, despite knowing what he would see, he turned, looked back.

Bodie was standing there in the middle of the room. Bodie, who never showed an inch of skin if he could help it, who never looked anything but cool and composed, was standing there stark naked, drying come smeared over his chest, reaching out a hand desperately, like he was hanging from the edge of a cliff. His eyes were oddly reflecting, wet, and the look on his face—the look in his eyes —

"Ray. _Please_." His voice was rough, broken, shattered.

"I can't," Doyle said, and left, stepping into the corridor without looking back again.

A few steps down the corridor he could hear Hull's voice. "Sorry, Bodie. Told you about trade omis before."

"Yeah, well," a voice croaked, barely recognizable. "I never fucking learned."

* * *

Doyle ran heedlessly through the corridors, up the stairs, down other identical corridors, and somehow, miraculously, found his way back to his cabin, locking the door behind him firmly with shaking hands.

Throwing his clothes off, he climbed into bed, pulling the sheets roughly over himself. Alone. He'd fucked it all up. All of it. 

He couldn't do this. He couldn't be this. Couldn't be gay. Bi. Whatever. The person he usually went to with his fears, of course, was Bodie. His best mate. His partner. The man whose friendship he'd just ruined and whose partnership he was probably going to lose on account of this. He slammed his head hard against the pillow. The irony wasn't going to kill him, but everything else was.

Sleep came for him eventually. The numbness was a blessing.


	8. Chapter 8

Doyle's first drowsy thought, as he lay somewhere between waking and sleeping, was that he was missing something. The bed was empty, somehow—something wasn't here that should be. Pillows? No, he had one of those. Had blankets too. He slid his hand across the bed until his fingers curved over the edge of the mattress. Not here. What wasn't here?

Bodie was missing, the thought finally occurred to him. Why wasn't he here? He ought to be here, Doyle thought sleepily. He missed him.

Doyle woke up the rest of the way, remembered, and bolted upright.

The light coming through the porthole was the bright sunshine of full daylight, and a glance at the clock told him it was eleven. He'd certainly slept. Which was reasonable, because he'd stayed up late last night. Having sex with Bodie.

God. It hadn't been a dream. He'd really—they'd really—and he'd liked it. He could almost wish he'd hated it, or that he'd been indifferent. That would have been a normal reaction, a sensible, rational reaction from someone who'd gone for only women all his adult life. Sorry, not for him.

Unfortunately, he'd liked it. He'd fucking _loved_ it, with an intensity that terrified him. It was—and he almost started to laugh as he thought it—probably the best sex of his entire life. It was as if everything he thought he'd known before had turned out to be completely wrong, his previous opinions rendered naive and pathetic. It was as if he'd been rating his experiences with women, five out of five, thinking he was having a great time, and then suddenly it turned out the scale actually went up to ten. And at the top of the scale was Bodie. Perfect fucking ten.

And it was ridiculous, really, to think so highly of something that in general physical details was comparable to the fumbling around of overexcited teenagers. On the other hand, if a bit of mutual wanking was going to do this to him, it was a good thing it hadn't progressed any farther—if Bodie'd gone down on him, for example, he'd probably have died of sheer pleasure. So, really, it was better that they hadn't moved on to blowjobs, although it was a shame, because now he was wondering what Bodie tasted like, how Bodie would feel in his mouth —

What was _wrong_ with him? But that wasn't really the question, because Doyle knew what was wrong with him. There were, in fact, words for people who wanted to do precisely these things. 

He, Raymond Doyle, was gay. Homosexual. A fairy. Pansy. Shirt-lifter. Poof. Queer.

He was going to be sick. 

Stumbling out of bed, into the bathroom, he splashed his face with water at the basin and breathed slowly until the nausea subsided. He wondered if eleven was too early in the day to start drinking. He wondered if calling it bisexual instead made it sound any better, and he decided it didn't.

He lurched back into the bedroom, pulled on some clothes without looking, not really thinking about why he was bothering or what he was going to do when he got dressed. He'd missed breakfast, and lunch wasn't for another hour yet, not that he was hungry. Besides, if he left, there was the threat of running into Bodie.

Christ, he couldn't even think about the man without picturing —

This couldn't be his life. It was all well and good for other people, certainly, but it couldn't be him. What was he going to _do_?

He stared around the room in desperation. The cabin was getting to be a mess. Bodie hadn't cleaned it yesterday, and of course he hadn't been in today, either, because Doyle had been here the whole time; he would have noticed. Or would he? He'd been asleep.

There was a small stack of towels next to the outside door that hadn't been there last night, and he approached them with a sudden sickening feeling. Someone must have left them while he was asleep; he hadn't woken up. What would Bodie have to say to him? What message would he have left? Did he really want to know?

He picked up the towels anyway, threw them across the floor, heedless of any further mess, and there, almost at the bottom of the pile, was a scrap of paper.

It was crumpled, torn, full of crossed-out attempts and smeared ink. The message Bodie had finally settled on was in the bottom right corner, messy and in an unsteady hand, surrounded by three abortive lines that were scribbled over so much that the ink had bled through the paper.

 _I am so sorry_.

Sorry? What was Bodie sorry for? Sorry they'd done anything in the first place, probably. Bodie hadn't wanted to, had he? Of course he hadn't wanted to. They'd had no choice. That was why he'd looked so shocked when Doyle first touched him, why he'd told him they didn't have to if he didn't want to —

Wait. It didn't make any sense that he'd said that. They did have to. They were being observed.

But no one had been _watching_ them, he realised suddenly. There were only listeners. They had really only needed to sound convincing. They hadn't actually needed to _be_ convincing.

With a sinking, horrible feeling, he remembered what Bodie had been trying to tell him, right as he had touched him. Bodie had been telling him to lie back, relax, and they could just—what? Doyle had interrupted him before he could finish saying—saying —

That they could fake it. That they were going to lie there and moan believably passionate sounds, probably. Christ. No wonder Bodie had been shocked. Bodie hadn't intended to do any of it for real, and here he'd thrown himself upon Bodie and done it anyway. Idiot. 

If he'd just kept his mouth shut, none of this would have happened.

With that cheery thought, someone knocked on the door. He ignored it. Whoever it was could just go away. Not interested.

Then the doorknob turned, rattled. The person had keys. Was it Bodie? he wondered, suddenly panicked. No, Bodie wouldn't just force his way in if he wanted to talk, he was sure. Had to be someone else.

He got up just as the door swung open, revealing Rutter and Hull. He hadn't expected that. Messengers, probably.

"If Bodie sent you to talk to me—"

"He didn't," Hull said, voice like ice. "This is not at all his idea. In fact, if he knew we were doing it he'd probably be furious."

"Not least of which because we stole his keys," Rutter added, holding up a vaguely familiar key ring.

"That's nice," Doyle said. It wasn't. He put his hand on the door, started to close it. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm not really feeling in the mood for a conversation right now."

He stepped back, started to push the door shut. It didn't close. Hull had moved quickly, put his foot between the door and the doorframe, blocked it. The door bounced back, and the two of them stepped inside the room. It had happened too fast for him to think about, to do anything to stop it.

Hull's voice was calm, measured, in complete contrast with his words. "This may surprise you, Mr Doyle, but we don't actually give a fuck about your feelings."

"We do, however, care about Bodie," Rutter said.

"I'm going to get you thrown out of here," Doyle said, moving back to the door. "I'm not having this conversation."

"That'll be good." Rutter rolled his eyes, pretended to quote him. "'I'd like these two gentlemen thrown out of my room. Why? Well, they came to talk to me about the sexual relationship I've been having with my cabin steward'. Going to say that? It would end up recorded somewhere, certainly. And if you didn't want to say why you were complaining about us, I would."

Doyle stared at him. "Are you threatening me?"

"He's very good at blackmail," Hull said, almost affectionately. "By the way, that would certainly get Bodie dismissed, on the off chance you actually care what happens to him, which I am beginning to doubt. Homosexual acts are illegal for members of the merchant navy. You may only be a—civil servant, was it?—but I venture the results won't be particularly positive for you."

"If it's illegal for Bodie, it's illegal for both of you." Two could play at this game. Or rather, three.

Rutter shrugged, supremely unconcerned. "What is? As far as you know, we haven't done anything. And you'll never find anyone to say differently. Around here people stand up for each other. As for you, on the other hand, we have witnesses. We are witnesses."

They had him trapped. Doyle sighed.

"Good," Hull said, after a pause. "Now that we have that established, kindly sit down and tell us what the hell you think you're playing at."

He pulled out Doyle's own chair for him, and Doyle sat. The two of them took the settee and stared at him. Waiting. Expectant. An interrogation.

He couldn't think of anything to say. How could he possibly defend himself?

"Bodie's a wreck. The most we've been able to get out of him is that he thinks he's coerced you. Taken advantage of you. Wouldn't say why." That explained the apology note, Doyle thought.

"Only we know that's not true, you see," Rutter joined in. "Bodie's not that kind of bloke. It takes two people to do what you were doing, and so we know you were there because you wanted to be. So what the bloody hell is wrong with you?"

Doyle stammered. "I—I—"

"It doesn't even make sense," Rutter continued, sounding perplexed. "You've been fucking him for nearly a week now. You told us you loved him. This is a bizarre time to pick for deciding that you can't go through with it."

The man was probably right, with the limited information he had. Doyle's behaviour didn't make sense unless you knew the truth, knew that the cover was a lie, and there was no way Doyle was telling them that. What could he say?

"I know what it is," Hull said, suddenly. "I've seen your type before. I've fallen in love with your type, the more fool I. You kept him all to yourself up here, in this room. You could pretend you weren't gay, that it was special, that it was just him, that your love transcends gender, or whatever nonsense you were telling yourself. As soon as you get out there with other people, though, like last night, it's not just the two of you, and you've got to accept it: men who love men are gay. You're gay. And you're a coward."

Doyle shook his head, violently. "I'm not gay. I love women. I can't be gay. I can't. You don't understand."

"So you're bisexual. Congratulations. A piece of advice, though: trying to convince yourself you don't desire what you actually do is a bad idea. Never works."

"When we dock in Southampton," Rutter put in, "you're welcome to forget all about it, make yourself as miserable and repressed as you want. You'll never see Bodie again, after all." Doyle almost laughed. How were they to know they were wrong?

"Until then, you're going to have to deal with it," Hull told him. "And you'll feel better anyway if you accept it. Stop fighting. Stop hiding."

"What the hell do you know?" Doyle burst out, suddenly. "You work on a fucking cruise ship! Easy for you to say, oh, you can be gay. You're off in your own little paradise where anyone can be what he wants, and no one judges you for it. I've seen the real world. I've seen police horsewhipping the gay youth groups." He swallowed. "It's not that easy."

Hull matched his anger, easily. "And you think we both were born at sea? Never set foot on solid ground? The world's a rotten place sometimes, all right, but it gets better, and the only way that happens is if you stop lying to yourself!"

He stared at Doyle long and hard, then continued. "I knew I was different when I was twelve. Didn't know why, exactly, until university, when I fell in love with one of my classmates. He loved me. We never told anyone, you see. He thought it was wrong. I knew he thought it was wrong, of course, but I loved him so much I didn't care. He—he decided he did care and married a lovely girl. He's living a lie somewhere now. I was devastated. One of my more flamboyant school friends was put on trial. Very public, very nasty. He committed suicide. 

"And yet these impulses of mine didn't go away. There was something wrong with me, I told myself. I was sick. Perverted. Needed to be cured. Needed to be normal. Tried all sorts of things. I even went to a psychiatrist. He tried hypnotising me while telling me about the wonders of women. Nothing worked. So don't tell me I don't know what it's like."

Doyle swallowed, licked suddenly dry lips. "So then what did you do? How did it get better?"

"I met him." Hull leaned back and put his arm around Rutter, who smiled cheerfully. "He was refreshingly not conflicted about his desires in the slightest. Helped me learn to accept myself."

Rutter chuckled at that, some kind of private joke. "Is that what you call it these days, love?"

"So you see," Hull said, turning back to Doyle, "it can be done."

"I'll lose my job," Doyle said, bleakly.

"I'm sorry," Rutter said, "is there only one job in the whole country for pencil-pushers? That's sad, that is." Hull laughed at his joke.

He couldn't leave CI5. What would he do instead? There'd be no way to work with Bodie. Bodie, who was probably going to put in for a new assignment after the op was over anyway. Never work with him again. He might as well leave, mightn't he? Had to anyway, if he was—if he was gay.

"But none of that is relevant," Hull said, when he'd finished laughing. "The point," he said, deadly serious now, "is Bodie's feelings."

Doyle had to ask. "And what are Bodie's feelings?"

"Funny you should ask," Rutter said. "He's miserable. Was wandering about the corridors last night punching at the bulkheads and getting stinking drunk on the leftover wine. He's in a bad way."

Oh, Bodie. Oh, God, what had he done?

"He got up this morning, if you can call it getting up when he never went to sleep. He did his fucking job somehow, and then he came back to the peak and has been lying in his bunk staring at the ceiling. He won't sleep, he won't eat, and he won't talk to any of us about it. God help me, I don't want a repeat of last time. And it almost seems worse than that."

He tried to imagine Bodie like that. Bodie hadn't even been that bad about Marikka, for Christ's sake. And about him? They had to be exaggerating, somehow. "Last time?"

The two of them looked at each other, and Doyle watched the signals of a wordless conversation. He couldn't interpret it, but whatever it was made sense to them. They must have reached some kind of agreement, because Hull turned back to him and nodded.

"He'll kill us if he finds out we told you," Hull said, "but if it makes you want to do something to help him, it's worth it."

"When Bodie was seventeen," Rutter started, "he met a trade omi—I mean, a straight man—one of the new carpenters, just come aboard. I don't know what was special about this one, because God knows Bodie'd fucked his way through the whole ship by then. But Bodie fell in love. I think he'd never been in love before. Blissfully happy, he was. He wrote poetry. Bad poetry. Kept wandering around with a huge smile on his face. Brought the bloke flowers. Went dancing with him. I kept catching them in closets together. All the stupid things you do when you're seventeen and in love. He adored him."

Were they sure this was the same Bodie? He could never imagine the man he knew now doing that. Not seriously, anyway. He'd done it for the op. That was different.

"The affair lasted two months," Hull continued. "Then we got back to Southampton, found out this bloke had a wife and kids. Not that unusual, but he was leaving to be with them. Told Bodie thanks, it was fun. Didn't mean anything to him. He wasn't gay. He didn't care about Bodie in the slightest. He'd just been a young pretty thing he could fuck regularly."

"Bodie was—I think distraught is really too mild. Broken. Torn apart, more like. He cried, he raged, he picked stupid fights. He swore he'd never love another man again, never fall in love." Doyle remembered Bodie's behaviour the other day, when he'd asked him about love. He'd loved one man, he said, and clearly he must have done what he'd sworn.

"What did you do?" Doyle asked, knowing as he said it what was coming.

Rutter shrugged. "Us? Nothing. One day he was in his bunk, crying, and the next day he was gone. We'd docked in Dakar, the first port out, and he jumped ship." Rutter smirked a little, nodded out the window at the moving sea. "At least history can't repeat itself that much. We stopped at Dakar this morning, already, and I'm sure he's still on board. We've seen him since." Must have happened while Doyle was asleep. That was probably the only thing to be thankful about.

"After he left," Hull said, "we didn't see him, didn't hear anything from him, until last week when he came in and threw his bag on the empty bunk like he'd been gone two weeks instead of twenty years. I don't know what he's been up to; I'm not sure I want to know, honestly. And if you asked him I'm sure he'd tell you he's a different person now, but he's not. He had his heart broken so badly that now, almost twenty years on, he walked into the room and I knew it hadn't ever healed. He pushed it away, and he's harder now, colder, trying to keep everyone out, but under it all he's still the same, and he's still hurting. And you, you're ripping him apart."

Doyle's mouth worked, but he couldn't produce any words.

"If you can bring yourself to care about him as a fellow human being, you'll do something. He loves you," Rutter said, and it was probably the most ridiculous thing Doyle had ever heard. "I don't know how, or why, but he does."

"He loves me?" Doyle's voice came out as a croak. It couldn't be true, it couldn't. Bodie'd never treated him any differently.

Hull gave him a withering glare. "Just how much of an idiot are you? It's obvious to anyone who's got eyes. Probably even to anyone who hasn't." They were just seeing the cover; they had to be.

"He—" Doyle fumbled for words. "He hasn't told me."

"He wouldn't," Rutter said. "No offence meant, but that's not the sort of thing you tell a trade omi. It tends to upset them." He raised his eyebrows at Doyle, and the implication was clear. He'd been upset enough without that. "Mind you, I don't think it's the sort of thing Bodie tells anyone."

So, if Bodie loved him—Doyle decided to entertain the idea for just a moment—if he really loved him, he'd never tell him. Bodie, in fact, would probably never want to let slip that his feelings were more than just friendly. And he hadn't. Yes, they spent a lot of time together off the job, but they were mates. And the closer they were, the better they worked, he thought, remembering the painful first few months with his new partner staring at him in silence. They'd stopped almost getting killed every time out more or less the day after he'd bought Bodie a pint the first time. And, all right, Bodie liked his company better than birds. That wasn't a great feat, really, as he didn't seem to like birds much except for sex. For everything else, though, he had Doyle, but that wasn't the same. Wasn't the same as love.

Of course Bodie could sleep with him. Had slept with him. Clearly he'd do anything that moved. That didn't prove anything. A memory from last night pushed into his mind, sharp, vivid—Bodie looking down at him, unbuttoning his shirt. Doyle had been nervous, then, and paying more attention to what Bodie was doing than how he was doing it. But he remembered, suddenly, the way he'd been hesitating, almost reverent, pausing to tell him he was beautiful, how he'd wanted him, how he'd always wanted him —

Always? And the way he'd said it, it had sounded like it hadn't been just about lust. You said that sort of thing to people you loved. You were slow about it, gentle and tender, because you cared. Because it was something you'd always wanted to do with someone you had loved for a long time, and you said all the things you wanted to say because you didn't know if you'd get another chance, and the first time had to be right. And the way Bodie had looked when he'd said it, and the way Bodie'd kissed him, afterwards —

"He loves me," Doyle said, wonderingly. 

Hull gave him another look reserved for the terminally slow. "Glad you could join the rest of us in this conversation."

Doyle dropped his head into his hands. "Christ, what am I going to do?"

"Talk to him. Tell him."

"Tell him what, exactly?"

"First," Rutter said, "tell him that he's a stupid idiot for thinking he took advantage of you and that you're an even stupider idiot for walking out on him. You may not want to use those exact words."

"Tell him you enjoyed it. Tell him it was the best sex of your life. I don't care if you have to lie about your feelings," Hull added, "because, as you may remember, I don't actually care how you feel."

"It, uh," Doyle cleared his throat, "won't be much of a lie."

"What's the problem, then?" Rutter wondered, his brow furrowed. "The sex is fabulous, he loves you, you clearly at least don't hate him as a person—"

Hull nudged him. "It's because he's decided he ought to come out, not that you'd ever think of that as a problem, love."

"Oh, right." Rutter chuckled and nudged him back with his head, a loving gesture. "You madmen, always having to make a fuss over something so simple."

"It'd be best, of course," Hull said, briskly, "if you could tell him you loved him back. I don't know if you actually love him. I know you told us so, but you were clearly infatuated, and I'm ignoring that entirely. Do you love him?"

The question took Doyle aback. "I—I don't know."

"If you can't tell him that, you at least have to talk to him," Rutter pleaded. "Say something to make him feel better. I know you'll never see him after Friday, but don't leave him like this. Please."

"I have to think about it," Doyle said. "I have to think about what to tell him, first. But I'll talk to him." 

He couldn't break Bodie's heart. He couldn't. He had to tell him something. But what could he say? _It's all right, Bodie, I'm gay, and I love you too_. He couldn't say that. Was it even true? He didn't know.

"All right," said Rutter. "You've got a lot to think about. Come on," he added, pulling the other man up off the settee.

As the two of them moved toward the door, Hull turned back. "Come down to our peak; Bodie'll be there. Oh, and Lake's an annoying git, and we'll make sure to get him out of the room for you. We'll all go on a walk or something."

"Thank you," Doyle said, quietly, and meant it.

"Make the right choice, eh?" Rutter said, closing the door behind them.

* * *

What was the right choice? Doyle thought, miserably, hours later. He'd had a meal, as quickly as he could, talking to no one. He'd tried drinking, the only one in the bar at that time of day. But it hadn't offered him answers, and he'd left the beer half-finished on the table. He hadn't even considered playing shuffleboard. Why bother? He wasn't interested in Gladys's latest round of gossip, and he'd just lose anyway.

And here he was, back in his room, left with the same questions he'd started with. He should go see Bodie, he told himself. Every minute he was lying on the bed feeling sorry for himself was another minute that Bodie's heart was breaking a little bit more. Because Bodie loved him, and Doyle couldn't find it within himself to be strong enough to be the one Bodie loved.

But what would he say? He pictured himself walking in, seeing Bodie, and then—blankness. Nothing. What would he say to Bodie? What would Bodie say?

There were two questions here, and he needed to know the answers to both of them. Was he gay? That one was easy enough to answer, since last night. He could certainly enjoy it, physically. He would do it again in a heartbeat, and if that made him gay, or bisexual, then, well, it did. It was simple enough. He could come to terms with that later. Now wasn't the time for thinking about how Cowley would certainly sack him. He'd taken Bodie on, after all, and had seemingly been fine with it as long as Bodie didn't act on it. So it wasn't a given that Doyle would lose his job. Not even after what he'd done with Bodie, he realised—if he had to, he could make a case that it had been necessary for the op. He had certainly thought it had been at the time. It had just conveniently served other purposes as well.

It would be a problem, though, if they did it again. That might be difficult to pass off as work-related. Did he want to? Definitely. Should he? Assuming Bodie still wanted to, and didn't, say, want to shoot him after this, it depended.

Did he love Bodie? He could sleep with Bodie again, easily, but was there going to be anything left after he'd burned through the lust? It would fade eventually, he knew, and for God's sake he wasn't good at keeping relationships going either, for all that he mocked Bodie for his string of birds. And if he couldn't love Bodie like Bodie loved him, there was no point. It would mean sacrificing their jobs, everything, for one-sided, unrequited love. He had to be sure it was a thing he could do, and he didn't know how to know until he did it. It was a mess.

Of course, that assumed Bodie wanted a relationship. God, for all he knew maybe Bodie was regretting ever saying anything, ever doing anything, and he wanted them both to forget about it. Given what he'd promised in order to join up in the first place, he probably wanted very much to keep his job. But Doyle couldn't do that, he knew. He couldn't just forget. He imagined strained silences, stretching to eternity. If they did that, they'd probably be dead in a week. If they couldn't trust each other anymore, something would slip, one of them would be an instant too slow, and that would be it.

They were all rotten options, except one: the world where Bodie loved him, and he loved Bodie back, and it was real, and they loved each other so much that it wouldn't matter if Cowley threw him out, because they'd have each other.

But could that be this world? He didn't know. He didn't know anything. It was up to them, what he wanted, what Bodie wanted, and he didn't know either of those things.

And he'd have to talk to Bodie anyway, because of the op. God, the op. He'd barely even thought about it. So much for all of his agonizing about love—if the assassin killed, say, the entire royal family because he'd been too busy mooning over Bodie, it was assured he wasn't keeping his job in the first place. At that point, his job was the least of his worries. It sounded like Ivanov was the best bet, but he didn't know. Another thing he didn't know. 

It was Wednesday night. They docked Friday morning. They were down to the wire. He had all of tomorrow. He'd have to contact the Cow tomorrow night with their final pick. It was the last possible chance. And that meant he'd have to talk to Bodie. They'd have to come up with something; they'd have to at least be able to keep their minds on the op for one day. He could do that. That, he'd have to do.

That meant there was truly no point in going down to see Bodie tonight, he thought, even setting aside the fact that he didn't know what to say about their relationship. It was getting late already, anyway, and aside from the risk of running into the purser, again, who could only create obstacles for them on their last full day, what could he accomplish by going down there? They couldn't guarantee they'd be unobserved, and he had to be able to break cover, to talk about the op.

It was best to wait until tomorrow, then. Bodie, seeing as how he was still trying to do his undercover duty, would have to come up here, as he had been doing. Then they'd be able to come up with something to do about the mission. They'd be unobserved, at least.

Besides, by tomorrow he might come up with some answers about at least some of it.

Doyle turned off the light and lay awake in the darkness a long time. He hadn't found any answers by the time he finally drifted off to sleep, but he knew that he wished the bed were less empty. Unfortunately, knowing that wasn't enough.


	9. Chapter 9

Doyle awoke early, having slept restlessly through the night. He didn't want to miss Bodie coming by, after all, even though he still had no idea what he would say to the man. He lay in bed, half-awake, and thought some more about things he could say, trying out and discarding conversational paths. None of it sounded any better than it had last night. Damn it all.

Eight o'clock. He rolled out of bed, took a long shower, dressed, and began to tidy up the room as much as he could. Bodie had actually done a better job, not that he was going to tell him that. There were still no bugs anywhere that he could find.

Nine o'clock. It was breakfast time, certainly, but he couldn't go avail himself of it, and his stomach grumbled a noisy complaint. Bodie often came to clean while he was at breakfast, after all, and knowing his luck, Bodie would come by at precisely the time he was away. He couldn't afford to miss him. While he waited, he decided to clean the guns. They were probably overdue for a cleaning, and it was something to do.

Ten o'clock. The guns were as sparkling as he could make them, and he stowed them back in his safe, with the IDs he'd been carrying around for good measure. Still no sign of Bodie. He had to come, he had to. Feeling ridiculous for wasting so much time on their last day, he picked up his long-neglected novel and began to read. There wasn't much he could do until Bodie came by, and they could figure out a plan of last resort. He pictured Bodie in the doorway, telling him about the latest lead, imagining he'd solved the puzzle. He pictured kissing Bodie —

If Bodie wasn't here by eleven, well, he'd just have to figure something out. Bodie might be avoiding him, but he couldn't avoid the mission for much longer. He'd have to go mingle and see what he could find out by himself. Not an ideal solution, but sometimes all the choices were bad.

At five minutes to eleven, there was the rattle of a heavy cleaning trolley pulled up next to the door, and his heart raced. Someone knocked, and he practically leapt out of his seat, running to the door, pulling it open.

"Bodie!"

The young uniformed steward in the hallway regarded him with boredom and a tinge of confusion. "I'm here to clean your room, sir."

Doyle blinked, shut his eyes for a few seconds, and opened them again, as if that would replace this stranger with his partner. "You're not Bodie," he said, dumbstruck.

"No, sir," the steward said, answering one obvious statement with another.

"Why isn't Bodie here?" He wasn't coming, of course. Couldn't face him. Who could blame him? Doyle thought. He wouldn't be in a big hurry to talk to himself either, given what he'd done. How he'd hurt Bodie.

The steward shrugged, regarding the question as uninteresting. "He didn't finish his cleaning rounds this morning, sir. He left about half his rooms undone; didn't get there at all. Must have wandered off. I apologise for any inconvenience, but as he didn't notify anyone, it took the staff a while to become aware of the lapse. I hope this doesn't affect your enjoyment of your journey."

"Not at all," Doyle lied, while his mind worked overtime. Something was strange. What had Bodie done?

"Very good, sir. If you wish, I can return later, as your steward has left many rooms in need of cleaning."

The words sank in, and a cold chill ran down Doyle's spine. If Bodie had been upset enough to not show up at all, that was one thing. That was perfectly understandable given his state of mind. If Bodie had cleaned every room except his, that would also be understandable. Sad, but understandable. What didn't make sense was this situation. He'd cleaned some of the rooms, and then he had stopped. Why would he have done that?

"Do you know where he is now?" Doyle asked.

The man regarded him as if his interest in Bodie was bizarre, which he supposed it was. "No, sir. No one's seen him since he wandered off."

Why would Bodie have left? For the op? No, he was clearly being scrupulous about his cover. If he'd found anything, he'd have waited until he was done cleaning. He'd only have given up if —

If it weren't his choice. Doyle felt icy fear wrap itself around his heart. There was an unknown assassin wandering the ship. Something had gone wrong. Something had gone very, very wrong. The assassin. Whoever it was, he'd found Bodie.

"What time did he wander off?" Doyle demanded, feeling his pulse begin to race. God, Bodie had probably been gone for hours. Anything could have happened to him. Slow poison. Fast poison. Gunshot wound. He could be lying in a stairwell bleeding all over the decking. Where?

"No one knows, sir," the steward replied, beginning to look a little afraid of him.

"Do you know where he was in his list of rooms when he wandered off?"

The man shrugged again. "He didn't mark anything off, but he'd done some. I don't know which. Sir." He wanted to punch him. Someone. Anyone.

He barely restrained himself from grabbing the man by the front of his shirt. "Is there anyone, anyone at all, who might know more about his whereabouts?"

"His mates might have seen him around," the man volunteered, hesitantly.

Uncaring, Doyle pushed past the steward, then slammed the door behind him, taking off down the corridor. Hull and Rutter. His only hope.

"Does this mean you want me to come back later?" the steward called to him, still standing confused at his door.

* * *

Doyle leapt down the stairs two at a time, the pounding of his feet on the echoing metal stairwell not quite matching the speed of his heart. Luckily no one had stopped him or questioned him, because he'd left his CI5 ID in the room. Of all the times to forget it, and to think he'd carried both their IDs with him for most of the trip.

He'd wasted so much fucking time. He'd spent the morning cleaning his guns and reading, and meanwhile Bodie could be dying, chained up in a closet somewhere. He'd never find him. Bodie could be dead. One bullet to the head, all it would take. Brains spattered all over the wall. He'd never open his eyes again. No. The image shocked him with its clarity. Doyle grabbed the handrail for support, then kept running.

Bodie couldn't die. He couldn't. He couldn't. Of course he could. They weren't immortal. And assassins had no compunctions in killing, obviously. If Bodie'd found something out he shouldn't have, the assassin would certainly have no qualms about it. But they'd been through so much together, survived worse odds than this, and this would be—meaningless. It wasn't fair.

Fair? Nothing in life was fair, and especially not this. Bodie could be dead, and now he'd never see him again, never talk to him again, certainly never kiss him again, never tell him —

That he loved him. 

He loved Bodie.

Well, that answered that question. And now that he knew, he couldn't see how he could have been unsure. He couldn't imagine his life without Bodie in it. Or rather, he could, but the life he was imagining was a yawning void, despair and blackness. He'd turn his own gun on himself before he'd live in that world.

Hell of a time to figure that out. Now all Doyle could do was find him. And pray he wasn't too late.

Doyle turned down the corridor, hoping he could remember where Bodie's peak was. He'd only been there and back once, after all, and he hadn't really been paying attention on the way back. What if he couldn't find it? What if Hull and Rutter weren't there? Then what?

No sense borrowing trouble. He shoved all the worries, all the panic as far away as it could go. He had a job to do. He had to find Bodie. If he couldn't stay together, that would be it for Bodie, because it wasn't as if anyone else could do this.

Six, the sign on the door said, and Doyle skidded to a halt, pounded on the bare metal frantically, then again when there was no response. Come on, come on, Bodie could be dying—

What seemed like an eternity later, an annoyed voice called out, "All right, all right, don't beat the bloody door down. It's open." 

Doyle burst in, took a quick glance around the room. Bodie's bunk, empty. Not that he'd figured Bodie would be there, really, but it was vastly preferable to his imaginings. The only occupants of the room were Hull and Rutter, sitting at the table in the unoccupied alcove and regarding him with mounting confusion. He must look a fright, dashing in there, out of breath, probably looking almost as upset as he felt. He didn't care.

"Where's Bodie?"

"Hello to you too," Hull said, annoyed. "As you can see, he's not here. Now if you'd come by yesterday—"

He didn't have the time for this. They were going to sit there and taunt him, and with every passing minute— "I didn't, I'm an idiot, and I'm more sorry than you know," he bit out, "but I have to know, now: where is he?" His voice rose on the last three words, angry, furious, afraid.

"I thought he was with you," Rutter said, beginning to look bewildered. "He finally said this morning he was going to drop by your room after he was done cleaning for the day. Not that you really deserved it, we told him." Nice. "Other than that, I've no idea."

They were still acting like this was no big deal. Of course they were. They didn't know. They couldn't. "He never showed up," Doyle said, through gritted teeth. "Apparently he never finished cleaning most of his rooms. The lovely young man who showed up to replace him had no clue where he'd stopped, or when that was. So, please, if you know anything at all, please." He was desperate.

Hull shrugged, unmoved by his plea. "If he decided not to come see you, that's his business. Needed some time off. It happens." Except that Bodie had to see him, for the op, and would have come regardless of his feelings. He had to have intended to. Doyle knew that in his bones.

"Better luck next time," Rutter said, with a kind of false cheer that made Doyle want to hurt someone.

"I love him."

"How nice for you," said Hull. "He must have changed his mind."

"He hasn't," Doyle said, slowly, the absolute certainty of the feeling flowing through him. Some of that must have come out in how he said it, because they looked at him, and he knew they weren't seeing the cover any more. He wasn't Bodie's scared, naive lover. He was a CI5 agent. And even if he couldn't tell them, they knew. "Something has gone very wrong. I don't have time to explain now, but you have to trust me. If you care about Bodie, you have to trust me. His life is in danger. He could be dead. And a lot of other people will be in danger, especially if he's dead, but right now I don't care about them. I care about Bodie."

They were looking at him now, silent, wide-eyed, and he continued. "The time we waste talking about my fucking feelings and how passive-aggressively sorry you are is time Bodie doesn't have. If I can't find him, he's dead. And if he dies, so help me, it'll be on your head, and I will never, ever forgive you. Now _where is he_?"

"I don't know," Hull said, suddenly meek, "but I heard Jensen had been talking to him as he was making his rounds. Maybe he knows. I can ask him. He's just across the hall."

"Now," Doyle snapped, and Hull went.

He heard, from the other side of the door, a muted half of a conversation. Good.

"What's Bodie got himself into?" Rutter asked, as if he was trying to defend himself from Doyle's glare, deflect it.

Doyle shook his head. "Can't tell you. No time, anyway, even if I could. Bodie'll probably want to tell you about it himself, if he's—all right. But for now you just have to trust me. Please. And don't tell anyone."

Hull came back in, looking at him with a new respect. "Jensen says he saw him at about half past eight, up by the first-class deluxe cabins like yours. Says Bodie said he had one more cabin to clean up there and then he was going to come see you."

Not enough information. So close. "Whose?" he asked, desperately. "What cabin?" It had to be the assassin's, or maybe the assassin was lurking there. That had to be where something went wrong with the plan.

"Someone named Evans, if that means anything to you," Hull said. "I think he said it was 415."

"Thank you," Doyle said, meaning it. "You may have saved his life."

Before they could say anything else, he was off again, running.

* * *

He had to get back in time, he thought as he ran up the stairs. But first, he had to be prepared. Had to get his guns, get the IDs, then he could face the assassin. Evans. But who was Evans? Bodie hadn't mentioned suspecting anyone by that name, though it sounded familiar. And not just because it was a decently common name. He'd met someone recently with that name. Who?

Evans. Evans. He racked his brain. Who? For some reason, he was picturing women's hats —

Gladys. Gladys Evans.

Gladys?

Bodie did clean her room, he'd mentioned, but the very idea of her being the assassin was unbelievable. Even if being caught in the assassin's room was certainly a reason things could have gone haywire. The woman was at least seventy-five. She was someone's dear old gran. Nothing sinister about her. It was absurd. It was ridiculous. It was mad. She was the last person aboard that anyone would ever suspect.

Which made it the perfect disguise. No one would think to look at her. They'd been assuming it was a man, even though the file had never said one way or the other, but it didn't have to be. She would be beyond suspicion—look how mad he felt even considering the idea. And she'd been on the ship since India, she'd said. That was just long enough. She was travelling alone, as the file had suggested would be the case. And she was always nosy, always prying into people's business, and she knew everything about everyone. Necessary training in that line of work, and it would help her keep her eyes open for the agents looking for her. And to think he'd called her Miss Marple? He'd been more right than he knew.

But how would she have had access to the storerooms for weapons? There were keys needed that she didn't have. Not that they were particularly secure keys, he realised. Bodie'd been able to steal them, and so had that Arthur's boyfriend. Easy enough for anyone to pinch a set. But when would she get down there? And how? There were always people on duty. If Ivanov had caught him and Bodie sneaking around, surely someone would have caught her.

But someone had. The sleepwalking. One of the crew had found her wandering around the other night, Fred had said. But, of course, who suspects malice from a little old lady? She could have just told them she was sleepwalking, and they'd have believed her. He had.

It was still mad, of course, but it made a mad sort of sense. It could be her. He'd have to see. When he got there.

He ended up back in his room. Not fast enough, of course. Nothing was fast enough. It could already be too late. The confused cabin steward had either given up on his room entirely or was planning to come back later—he didn't know which, and he didn't really care.

He fumbled the safe key three times before he finally got the safe open. Both IDs slid neatly into his pocket. Guns. Holster. It took him another two tries to put the shoulder holster on, which was something he ought to be able to do in his sleep. He had to calm down. But he couldn't, it seemed, when Bodie was the one in danger, when he was trapped here in this state of not knowing. It was one thing to see him in trouble on an op, but at least then he knew what was happening. It was this uncertainty that he couldn't take.

Deep breath. Jacket on, to cover the holster. A spare clip in the inside pocket. Pocket-knife. Other gun. What to do with the other gun? His brain was sluggish. It was like moving underwater. He wedged the gun into the waistband of his jeans with difficulty—how did Bodie manage that so often? It was damned uncomfortable. Probably helped that he wore trousers that weren't as tight. Pull the jacket out over it. No visible weapons. Best not to frighten the passengers. Or the crew.

Final check of the room. Close the safe, lock it. Breathe. Breathe. 

_Hold on, Bodie, I'm coming for you_.

Ready.

* * *

It didn't take long to get there, of course. Gladys's cabin was on the same deck, after all, but it was still surprisingly far away. If there'd been any kind of scuffle this morning, there was too much in between them for him to have been able to hear anything. If there'd been something as loud as gunshots, he might have heard them, though. It could be good news that he hadn't. But there were many other ways to kill a man, so knowing that wasn't particularly reassuring.

He stood to the side of the door carefully and knocked. No reply. Hadn't really expected one. It was a light door, and the locks weren't that solid. If it turned out Gladys was innocent, he could apologise profusely. If not, well, then it didn't matter what her door looked like.

Doyle stepped back, kicked the door, once, twice, and on the third kick the lock broke, the door flying backwards on its hinges to hit the wall. He drew his gun. No sign of movement, his instant impression. Nowhere to hide, either, with all the curtains pulled back, all the interior doors open. No assassin hiding. Time to enter the room.

The cabin was a mess, like a nightmare version of his own. Curtains were torn and strewn about, furniture was tipped, vases were smashed—but Doyle only had eyes for the figure in the far corner of the room. 

Bodie was slumped against the wall, bound and gagged, eyes closed, motionless. Dead? He couldn't be. He couldn't. This couldn't be how Bodie would die. Doyle swallowed and wondered if his own heart would stop from the fear of it.

"Bodie!"

As he vaulted the overturned settee in a burst of terror-fuelled adrenaline, Bodie turned his head toward him. Alive. Thank God. Blood trickled down his face from a cut on his forehead, and there was a growing bruise on his temple where someone must have clocked him a good one, but he was alive. It was the most beautiful sight Doyle had ever seen.

Almost frantic with relief, Doyle reached Bodie's side and knelt by him just as he opened his eyes. He looked at first glad, his eyes quickly flickering, shading to upset, and Doyle reached behind Bodie's head to untie the gag. His hands shook as he worked at the knot.

Bodie spat the gag out. He coughed hoarsely for a few seconds until he caught his breath and spoke.

"I am sorry, you know."

Oh, Bodie. Now was not the time. Now was really not the time for this conversation, and that was what Doyle was going to say. Intended to say. Really ought to say.

Fingers still shaking, Doyle reached out again and softly, lightly stroked Bodie's cheek, tilting his chin up.

"Don't be." Doyle smiled. "I'm not."

He waited just long enough for Bodie to make sense of the words, for the beginnings of a joyful smile to spread across Bodie's face, and that was when Doyle kissed him.

As kisses went, objectively, it was probably not a very good kiss. It was awkward, almost clumsy. Their noses bumped. Bodie's stubble scratched his face, his lips were raw and broken, and he tasted faintly of blood. And tied up as he was, Bodie couldn't quite turn to meet him, although he certainly tried.

But none of that was important. What the kiss meant was what mattered, and, on that scale, as far as Doyle was concerned it was the best kiss of his entire life. The way Bodie returned the kiss was lingering, full of promise.

He pulled his head back to look at Bodie, and Bodie's face was—ecstatic. Transformed. Like someone had just told him he could have everything he ever wanted. Maybe someone just had.

"How are you feeling?"

"Oh, just wonderful, ta. I've a headache like you wouldn't believe, and I'm dripping blood, as you see," Bodie said slowly, but then a smile lit up his face again. "Also, I'm the happiest man alive. What, did you think you needed to give me something to live for?"

"Couldn't let you beat yourself up over it any more, now, could I?" Suddenly embarrassed, Doyle felt his face redden. "Oi, roll over, I'll get your hands undone."

Bodie did, and as Doyle used his pocket-knife to cut away the last of the ropes binding his wrists, Bodie reached out a newly freed hand, grabbing Doyle's and squeezing it, hard.

"Thanks," Bodie said. "And when this is all over later, I'll show you exactly how grateful I am."

His eyes locked with Doyle's, and the look he gave him was dark and smouldering, making promises like his kiss had done, albeit of a slightly different nature. Doyle felt a slow fire within him spark, begin to spring to life. God. What Bodie did to him was like nothing else.

"I'd like that very much," Doyle replied, surprised to hear his own voice so low. Bodie wanted him. Bodie wanted _him_. "If you can give an idiot like me another chance."

Bodie brought up his free hand to cup Doyle's face, a touch of warmth that spread throughout his body like a wave. "I think I can manage. Just don't do it again, eh? Don't think my poor heart can take it." He winked at him then, like it was a joke, like maybe he even really thought he was making a joke, but Doyle knew it wasn't.

He brought their clasped hands to Bodie's chest, laid them against his heart. Alive. Still beating. "I won't."

Bodie looked at him, and he looked at Bodie, who still wore an amazed, beautiful smile. No armour there. No games. Just Bodie. And if they stayed here like this one more minute, he was going to kiss Bodie again, and if he did that Bodie would kiss him back, and after that they would be in no condition to do their jobs. And he knew Bodie knew it as well. Of course he knew it.

"Much as I'd like to continue this line of inquiry," Bodie started, and Doyle laughed delightedly because he didn't even need to finish the sentence. They still had it.

"Perhaps it would be less tempting standing up," Doyle suggested, clambering to his feet and pulling Bodie with him, still holding his hand.

Bodie winced as he balanced himself, then gave Doyle an especially wicked grin, similar to the one that usually went with dirty jokes but much more knowing. "Can still fuck standing up, you know. Or, depending on what you'd like to do, only one of us needs to be standing. I'm perfectly happy to get on my knees for you."

The lust that swept through him at that statement was unprecedented. Dizzying. His vision darkened for a second, and he wondered vaguely if it were possible to come just from Bodie talking to him, even though he knew it ought not to be. When he could see again, Bodie's grin was distinctly more smug.

"Bodie," he managed, after several calming breaths. "That's not actually less tempting."

Bodie shrugged his best innocent shrug, which didn't work so well combined with that grin. "Just checking."

"Be nice, or I won't give you my spare gun."

His face lit up again, the way it usually did at the mention of firearms. "You brought it?"

Doyle handed him the gun, just because it would keep him smiling. "I do remember how to do this job some days."

"Took you long enough to find me." He made a disdainful sound. "You have my ID there too?"

"Trouser pocket."

Bodie's eyes dropped to his crotch. "Need some help finding it?"

Doyle swallowed. "Probably not wise right now." He dug it out of his pocket, handed it over as well. Bodie's eyes followed his every motion like it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen, which wasn't helping his concentration, but he suspected Bodie wasn't actually doing it intentionally. "So what happened with Gladys?" He hesitated. "It _is_ Gladys, right?"

Bodie nodded. "It is. Our mystery Russian assassin."

"It sounds so unbelievable."

"Yes, well." Bodie chuckled. "No one was more surprised than me, believe me. Although I think she was quite shocked to find me going through her things."

"She walked in on you?"

Bodie nodded again. "Remember how I said she was always in when I showed up to clean? Today she wasn't. So I came in, and the safe was open, and I—"

"Had a look," Doyle finished. The wall safe, he noticed, was indeed still open, though he had missed it in the general disarray of the cabin.

"It was full of—well, see for yourself." Bodie waved a hand, and Doyle walked over to examine it.

No guns, no bombs, but there were plans like the ones they'd found in the storerooms, more cryptic things labelled in Russian. Exactly the sort of papers the assassin would have. There were some longer documents as well, letters, maybe. Underneath the stack of papers were some small metal tins, and Doyle opened one of them eagerly. It contained ome kind of cream, light pink. "Makeup?" It seemed a ridiculous thing to hide.

Bodie raised an eyebrow. "She's not actually as old as she's pretending. Nowhere near. Good disguise. I may have been... not at my best, but she's in fighting trim and astonishingly well-trained. Also, she had a knife in her bag. All of which I found out when she came in and caught me over there at her safe."

They'd fought hard then, Doyle knew, seeing the state of the room. "She got the better of you, I see."

"Knocked me out for a bit," Bodie said, touching the bruise on his head, and Doyle regarded Bodie's eyes with sudden suspicion. Pupils the same size. Probably not concussed. "When I came to, she'd tied me up. As you saw."

"And gagged you?"

"Not right away." Bodie looked sheepish. "I asked her if she wouldn't mind gloating a bit and telling me the details of her plan. She told me I'd, and I quote, 'seen too many James Bond films, young man'. And _then_ she gagged me."

Doyle laughed. "That mouth of yours, Bodie."

"You seemed to be a fan of it," Bodie said coolly, seductively licking his lips, and he didn't even pause while Doyle floundered for air, struck breathless by the sudden eroticism of it. God, who knew Bodie could be like this? "At any rate," he continued, "she was most uncooperative, grabbed her bag, and left. So there's a Russian assassin roaming the ship somewhere, who knows I'm onto her. Sorry."

"Could be worse," Doyle said, trying desperately to keep his mind on the op.

Bodie stared at him. "Not by much. This is exactly what wasn't supposed to happen."

"I thought you were _dead_ ," Doyle blurted out, the raw, honest truth just falling out of him.

Bodie's gaze softened. "Not yet." He didn't need to say anything else.

Trying to find something else to do, Doyle held up the pile of papers. "Didn't happen to learn Russian in Africa too, did you?" It wasn't likely that one of them contained the assassin's—Gladys's, he corrected himself—contingency plans and spelled out exactly where she'd be, but he couldn't help hoping. Not that it would be apparent to either of them if it did.

"Do I _look_ like I know Russian, mate?" He squinted suddenly at the plans. "Hold on. Give me those, will you?"

Doyle passed the plans over, and Bodie went through them, rapidly, staring at each one, shaking his head, throwing it at the floor, moving onto the next, until there were none left. His face got progressively tighter, paler. He reached the last page, crumpled it into his fist, and looked up, eyes wide.

"What's the matter?"

"We have to go now," Bodie rasped. "Right now."

"Why?"

Bodie, impatient, lightning fast, grabbed his hand, began to pull him toward the door. "Because one of the plans is missing."

"How do you—"

"Because I recognised it. Because it was a plan of the _Arcadia_."

It didn't quite make sense. "Why does that matter?"

Bodie's gaze was hard. "Do you remember the part in the file about the general beliefs of these assassins?"

Doyle ran frantically through his memory of the files. "I don't—"

"Death before dishonour. Fairly standard line, but that includes capture. Or, say, being found out."

"So she'll shoot herself? Make it easy for us." Doyle ventured, knowing as he said it that it couldn't be true.

"Not likely with this bunch. They're more... dramatic, you might say. She's got enough Semtex to blow a bloody great hole in the side of the ship. And she knows where to put it." Doyle's mouth went dry. "And by now she's had enough time to wire it up."

They stared at each other for a beat longer, then as one, turned and ran out the door, Bodie first, Doyle following on his heels. He'd thought time counted before, but now it really did. They had to find her. They had to stop her. He hoped Bodie knew where he was going.

* * *

Deck 12 turned out to be useless, as they ran, headlong, into the storerooms. The boxes that had been concealing weapons were now just ordinary boxes, but one was missing. Must have taken it to carry the explosive in. She'd already been and gone.

Bodie looked at him, tense, determined, as he ran his hand along the empty shelf. "Any ideas?"

"I thought you knew," Doyle said. Bodie didn't know. And there was no time, no time left...

"Was hoping she'd still be here. Or that she'd have to come back here for more, but she's taken everything already. Have to think." Bodie shook his head. "Where would you go if you wanted to put a bomb on the ship?"

"Depends," Doyle said, running the possibilities through his head. "Are we going for terror or general mayhem and destruction? Terror, one of the passenger areas, maybe."

"I think she'd prefer destruction. Kill the lot of us." Bodie looked at him, wild-eyed.

"I'd sink the bloody ship, then," Doyle said, because it was the obvious answer. "Explosives somewhere under the waterline, as far down as she can go. Press the button, and if the holes are big enough—"

Bodie nodded once, tightly. "I know where she is now. Come on!"

* * *

The corridors were narrower than before, the lower they descended into the _Arcadia_. It felt darker, colder, but Doyle cared about none of these things. They had to find Gladys. All the staircases looked the same, all the decks looked the same as they passed, but Bodie kept running. Somehow they didn't encounter anyone; probably Gladys had had no trouble either. They had to find her.

The last landing on the stairs was much like the others, but this was it. The stairs didn't go down any farther. This was as deep as they, or anyone else, could go into the ship. They'd find her here, and they'd confront her, and they'd get her. Or die trying.

"Bodie," he whispered, hoarsely, and Bodie turned back to look at him. "If we don't make it, I—"

Bodie smiled at him a little, a brief flicker of hope and light and everything he wanted to stay alive for. Everything he wanted them both to stay alive for. "I know. Now come on." So much for speeches.

They moved slowly now, quietly, creeping along the deck, guns drawn. Gladys had to be somewhere here, and there was no sense alerting her. A few feet ahead of him, Bodie paused at a junction, holding perfectly still. He didn't say anything, but half-turned towards Doyle, motioning him forward.

This corridor ran along the outer edge of the ship, curving all the way along it, Doyle could tell. On the other side of this wall was the ocean. Fluorescent lights dotted the length of it, feebly illuminating the dimness. Along the bottom edge of the wall ran something that wasn't lighting. It looked almost like a toy, orange baubles, clay-like, strung together, connected by wire, stretching out past where he could see the corridor turning. The other direction was the same, a long thin line of orange. It wasn't a toy. It was all Semtex. Enough to rip the ship apart at the seams.

He held his breath, and Bodie looked at him again, nodded, raised an eyebrow, held up his gun, and he understood the plan just from that. If she hadn't blown it yet, she wasn't done, and if she wasn't done she was still here. And if she was still here, they would find her. Or rather, Bodie would find her. He would cut the wires and join him when he was done.

Doyle pulled out his knife, and Bodie nodded again. In the silence, somewhere far to their right, came a noise. It sounded like it was in one of the rooms, from the way it was muffled. Someone was in one of them. Gladys.

Bodie reached out with his free hand, ran a finger along Doyle's temple, tracing the line of his hair, and then was gone.

Doyle went the other way, left, sliding along the corridor until he found the end of the line, or rather, the beginning, where the line of explosives had started. He knelt down and got to work. The whole thing wasn't fully wired yet, he knew. But it didn't mean it wasn't urgent. Red wire, blue wire. Not even a choice, really. Red. He clipped it, one smooth efficient motion. He moved onto the next. Red. The next. Red. Faster. Cut. Cut. Cut.

When he looked up, there were three more lengths left to cut, and he could see Bodie standing in a doorway farther down. Or, half of him, anyway. He had his arms out, extending into the room, presumably holding his gun on the room's occupant. Bodie gave no sign that he noticed him, although Doyle knew he knew he was there. Gladys only knew about Bodie. Had only found Bodie snooping. There was no reason she would suspect him of being involved. And that meant they had an advantage, something she didn't know, and they ought to keep it that way.

He cut the last wire with a sense of relief. Disarmed. That would buy them some time. There was no way the ship was going to get blown up now, not without her being able to rewire everything. Now all they had to do was handle Gladys.

"So I was wondering," Bodie said, conversationally, to the room's occupant, like he'd been having a conversation Doyle hadn't heard, "if you'd consider putting down that gun before I shoot you. It would be much easier for both of us." From the words, he must have just confronted her, because that would have been a long time to stand in silence.

"You are an awfully resourceful young man," Gladys's voice came, marvelling. It was full of echoes—the room beyond must be large. "I thought I left you tied up."

Bodie managed a nonchalant shrug, keeping the gun steady as he did so. "I have hidden talents." He took a few slow steps forward, disappeared into the room. Doyle couldn't see him any more and drew his gun. If she left, got past Bodie, he'd take her.

"Don't we all, dear," Doyle could hear her say. "Are you going to introduce me to your friend?"

She couldn't know about him. A pause, and then Bodie played dumb. "What friend?"

"I assume your Mr Doyle is done disarming my masterpiece by now. Such a shame." She knew he was here? How did she know he was here?

A long silence.

"Ray," Bodie called back to him, sounding abashed, "you might as well join us. We're having a grand old time. You'd hate to miss it."

So much for that plan. He came up behind Bodie, gun out, and now he could see the room. It was large, with exposed pipes and ductwork running throughout, sticking out at odd angles, dripping water and steam. At the other end of the room was a table with a box on it, the table covered in wires and more Semtex, thankfully not yet connected to anything. At the table sat Gladys, wire strippers in one hand. In her other hand was a small, delicate gun, which she had trained on Bodie. Without moving her hand or her head, she slid her eyes over to regard Doyle as he entered. He took aim at her.

"Hello, Mr Doyle," she said, in the same polite tones she had greeted him with every day. Like they weren't here holding guns on each other.

"Hello, Gladys," Doyle replied. "Or, what is it, Natasha? Svetlana? Olga?"

"None of your business. So impertinent. By the way, I'm sorry I had to tie your young man up. He was even more impertinent."

"Oh, it happens to him all the time. He loves it." Doyle twitched his free hand like he didn't care, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Bodie make an exasperated face. "But how did you know about me? You'd never even seen us together."

Gladys giggled a little. "You think people don't talk? When I found your fellow here snooping, I knew you had to be involved. It reminds me of when I was a girl, in Novosibirsk, although of course then it was Novonikolaevsk, and my neighbour Anton Petrovich, he—"

Next to him, Bodie sighed. "It's a lovely story, I'm sure, but I think we have better things to talk about. For example, your future capture and arrest. Fascinating topic, that."

"One of my favourites," Doyle agreed, bantering back, and Bodie probably smiled, not that he could see.

"Very charming. I liked you both very much. Shame you'll have to die." She levelled the gun at Doyle then, and strangely, it made him feel better. At least she wasn't aiming at Bodie. He'd taken bullets. He wasn't afraid.

There was a long silence then, as Gladys stared at him, and he stared back. Time seemed to slow down.

Bodie's voice shattered the spell. "You can't win, Gladys. There's two of us and one of you, and you can only shoot one of us at a time. You'll have to pick one. And if you pick him, if you even think about shooting him," Bodie's voice broke, raw, "I will put a bullet in your head before you can blink."

The threat didn't faze her, and she promptly turned the gun on Bodie. "So I'll start with you, Mr Bodie. I can certainly shoot you before Mr Doyle does anything. And to me he seems like he has... morals. Nasty, inconvenient morals. To stop me, he'd have to shoot me before I've done anything. He doesn't seem the type to enjoy doing that. And I'll wager he doesn't like shooting women at all."

Her finger tightened on the trigger. It looked like. Could be a trick of the light from far away. She could be bluffing. He'd have to shoot. He had to do something. Could he shoot her? He'd have to do it now. Make a decision. Do something. He was frozen.

The single gunshot rang out, thunderously loud, and across the room, the gun flew out of Gladys's hand.

In an instant, Bodie was there, grabbing the weapon, his own gun pressed against Gladys's head.

"Luckily for him," Bodie said, low, dangerous, "I don't mind doing it."

As Doyle ran forward, Bodie pulled the gun back and smashed it heavily against her skull. She sagged forward onto the table, eyes shut.

"Dead?" Doyle asked, breathless, as he came up beside Bodie.

Bodie grabbed the woman's arm, reached for her pulse lazily, like he didn't care either way whether she lived or died. "Nah, just unconscious."

"Thanks, mate."

"Any time."

They'd made it. They'd done it. They'd lived. Bodie met his eyes, smiled at him, and Doyle felt the familiar heat begin to run through him. But it wasn't quite over yet.

Doyle holstered his gun. "So, uh, what are we going to do with her? Any ideas? We can't just leave her like this." He took a quick glance around the room. Nothing to restrain her with—all the bits of wire were too short.

"Actually," Bodie started, voice sounding strangely embarrassed, and it was so odd that Doyle turned back to look at him. "I might have something we can tie her up with."

He rummaged through his pockets, and produced a pair of handcuffs. His handcuffs. His face looked oddly flushed.

Doyle gaped at him and started to laugh, half with relief to be alive, half at the sheer absurdity of the situation, as Bodie cuffed her. "Christ, mate. You didn't bring a gun. You had me carry your CI5 ID. But you brought _handcuffs_? Why the hell do you have handcuffs?"

Bodie's lips curved, as if there was a joke only he was in on. "I'll tell you later, sunshine. I'd show you, but, well, only brought the one pair."

Doyle felt his face redden, matching how Bodie's had just looked. "Oh."

Bodie grinned at him, patted his face, and leaned over to kiss him.

Naturally, the universe having a rotten sense of timing, that was precisely when Ivanov stumbled in. He looked around the room, then saw them and did a double-take. They broke apart, guiltily, but that didn't keep the man from glaring at them and taking a breath to embark on another one of his tirades.

"You!"

Bodie looked at him lazily, as if he no longer cared what the man could do to him. He probably didn't; there was no reason to any longer. "Yes?"

"I warned you," the man blustered, angrier than he really should have been. "If I caught you again somewhere you shouldn't be, I'd have you off the ship. And here I am, and here you are!" He didn't seem to notice Gladys lying there, so single-minded was he. The two of them were between the purser and Gladys, so it was just barely possible that he couldn't see her and he wasn't naturally especially observant. He had to be stupid not to have noticed the explosive on the way in, so that was definitely plausible.

Bodie looked at him, then, and he knew what Bodie was thinking. They'd been wrong about Ivanov. It hadn't been him. But yet he'd been everywhere they were.

"And why are you here?" Bodie asked, silkily. "I know why _I'm_ here—" Doyle felt Bodie's hand brush briefly, possessively, against his arse, and he shivered. It felt so good. "But how about yourself? Interested, ducky?" he camped.

The purser spluttered. "You—that's none of your business why I'm here."

And suddenly Doyle understood. "Ah, come on, Bodie, he's not into that. He's just looking for a nice private place to shoot up his heroin."

Ivanov went white.

Bodie blinked. "Would have been useful to know that earlier." He looked a little miffed.

"I didn't know myself, until right now," Doyle said. "Call it copper's intuition."

"Knew the Drugs Squad was good for something." Bodie laughed. Ivanov began to back out of the room, and Bodie pulled his gun on him, slowly, deliberately, making a show of it. "Where do you think you're going?"

He stopped, looked at something behind them, and went even paler. He'd finally noticed Gladys, then.

"Who the hell are you?" the purser whispered. "And what do you want? I'll do anything. Turn me in if you want. Just don't kill me."

Bodie smiled his most charming smile. "Actually, there is something you can do for me. It's not what you're thinking."

"We'd like you to go to the captain," Doyle said. "Tell him to come down here. Don't tell anyone else. Only him."

Ivanov was beginning to regain a bit of his composure. "I'll tell him two mad fairies with guns are here with a tied-up old lady, shall I?"

Doyle met Bodie's eyes. The op was over. They could dispense with the cover. "No, you'll tell him two CI5 agents are requesting his assistance."

As one, they flipped open their IDs.

Ivanov's face, as he beheld the incontrovertible proof of their CI5 IDs, was a study in astonishment and confusion. "I just figured you for queers. Never figured you for spies."

"I'm a queer spy, myself," Bodie said brightly, like the insult couldn't touch him. "Don't have to be just one thing or the other, you know. You should be more imaginative."

Ivanov looked even more confused, not that that should have been possible, and then he gestured at Doyle. "How about him?"

"I don't claim to know what he calls himself."

"I'm his partner," said Doyle, because it was true.

"Oh." Ivanov's face relaxed, then furrowed again. "Just his spy partner, or—"

"Both, actually," Doyle said, trying as hard as he could to copy Bodie's effortless nonchalance. If he said it like it didn't matter, then it wouldn't matter, would it? "Now go fetch Captain Llewellyn, there's a good lad."

Ivanov grunted and disappeared out the door, heavy footsteps clunking down the deck.

The look Bodie bestowed on him after the man had gone was full of—pride? In him? Bodie was proud of him?

"You didn't need to say that, mate."

"I know," Doyle said, still practicing his nonchalance.

"Glad you did, though."

"Know that too."

Bodie reached over and ruffled his hair.

* * *

Five minutes later, Gladys was still out of it, and he was watching Bodie studiously trying to wipe the dried blood off his face with his sleeve when they heard the tread of footsteps in the corridor. Doyle tensed as he heard it.

It would surely take more than five minutes for Ivanov to make it back with Llewellyn. That meant that whoever it was was someone else entirely, and they'd best be on their guard. Doyle rose silently and walked toward the door, hand on his gun, waiting.

David Smith, camera bag dangling across his arm as usual, walked past the open door, stopped, and turned to look at him.

"Mr Doyle!" He looked about as confused as Doyle did, and really, who could blame him? Neither of them were supposed to be here, after all.

"Taking some more snaps?" Doyle asked. "Hardly picturesque, this."

From behind him, Bodie called out, "Has its charms, though, doesn't it?"

Smith focused behind him, at Bodie, and then behind him, at Gladys, and his eyes widened. "What's going on here?"

His shoulders were tensed in confusion, and the camera bag slid off his shoulder, dangling half-unzipped from his arm. The motion caught Doyle's attention, but even more arresting than that was the familiar dull metallic gleam visible from within the bag now. That was no camera. That was —

"Gun!" Doyle yelled and drew, and behind him he heard Bodie drawing as well. Bodie couldn't have seen it, not from his vantage point but he trusted Doyle, blindly, instantly, even now, and knowing that warmed his heart.

The bag dropped on the floor. Smith's hands went high in the air. Strangely, he didn't look at all concerned, the way people generally did when you had them at gunpoint. He looked relaxed, as if he was the sort of person who did this every day. Like someone in their line of work.

"Who are you idiots?" Smith asked, incredulously.

"I don't think you're in a good position to be insulting us," he heard Bodie say. "Mind telling us what you're doing here?"

"Oh ho ho. I know who you are." Smith started to laugh. "I'm going to get something out of my pocket now."

Slowly, ever so slowly, he lowered his hand, reached inside his jacket, and retrieved a folded leather wallet. He flipped it open one-handed, a practiced motion, and held it out for Doyle's inspection. Apparently his name was really David Smith. And as for the rest of it —

"Put your gun away, Bodie," Doyle said, doing the same himself. "He's MI6."

"Christ." Bodie exhaled, an explosive breath, coming up beside him. "You lot have got to work on cooperating with the rest of us, I'm telling you."

Just so they were all clear, Doyle held up his own ID. "CI5, he means."

Smith smirked. "Figured you for Cowley's trained monkeys. And as for cooperation, I've been on this bloody boat since India. It's our case. It's you who should be cooperating with me."

"Fine job you did," Bodie bristled. "Bet you didn't even know you were looking for her." He jerked his head in Gladys's direction. "No, of course you didn't. We wouldn't have been called in if you had."

"I didn't need your help," Smith shot back, angrily.

"And how were you going to find someone to go undercover in the crew?" Doyle asked. "No, wait, you tried, didn't you?" The man Bodie had replaced to come here. "Only it didn't work. He wasn't good enough. You needed someone who already had the crew's trust. And that's Bodie. Had to be."

"That only accounts for one of you." He levelled an accusing glare at Doyle. "I was already very well-planted, and I was moving right along, and I didn't need my fellow passengers investigating me. You should have stayed home. Only needed someone undercover in the crew." His eyes moved over to Bodie. "You could have fed me information well enough by yourself."

"He's my partner!" Bodie was practically yelling. "I don't know you; I don't trust you. Doyle had to be here. We work as a team. Together."

Smith's face took on an ugly cast. "Oh, believe me, I know all about what you two do _together_ —"

"Shut up," Doyle shot back, seeing red, and it was only Bodie's hand on his arm that kept him from hauling off and punching the git in his smarmy face. "You don't know the first thing about it."

"This is our case. We found her, we got here first, and we're calling Cowley first," Bodie said. "And there's nothing you can do to make things happen any differently."

Smith's face purpled with apoplexy. "Not bloody likely, you—"

They were still arguing ten minutes later, when Llewellyn found them.

* * *

Given how long it felt like the day had taken up until that point, an agony of waiting, Doyle was surprised to find that the next several hours passed quickly, almost in a blur. He'd ended up collecting all the explosives off the deck, a task he ordinarily would have resented doing, but he had been glad he wasn't in the middle of Bodie and Smith's row. Llewellyn's mediation hadn't helped much either, and Gladys coming to in the middle of it only complicated events significantly.

They'd all followed the captain back up, and Bodie'd grinned smugly as the captain let him ring Cowley first while Smith received the honour of babysitting Gladys in an unused cabin. Of course the captain had let him go first. They'd talked to the Cow, the Cow had gone off to ring MI6, and then had contacted them again, sounding ever so slightly dejected, as he asked them to put Smith on.

At that point, time resumed its normal pace, which Doyle regretted, because now he was the one sitting in Gladys's makeshift cabin-cell, gun drawn, waiting for anyone to come back. The captain had made Bodie go off to sickbay and get checked out, practically a formality, but one Doyle was still grateful for when it was Bodie at stake. Smith was still out, probably contacting MI6 by now. Gladys had glared at him from the bed for a bit when he'd first got there, but then had turned over and spent the intervening couple of hours ignoring him. It wasn't as if she could get up to anything. They'd removed everything but the bed, and she'd been searched and was cuffed securely. Nothing to do now but wait.

He didn't have much longer to wait, as it was then that the lock rattled and Smith came in, looking down his nose importantly at him.

"She's MI6's."

"We'll get her in a few days, sunshine," Bodie said, coming in from the corridor just behind him. "The Cow just says they get first crack at her." He looked a little better than he had—all the blood had been wiped off his face, and there was a small bandage where the cut had been. The bruise on his head still looked nasty, though. It didn't make him any less gorgeous. Smith turned around and glared.

"Clean bill of health, Bodie?" he asked, and Bodie grinned at him and spread his arms wide, showing off.

"As always."

"Well," Doyle said briskly, rising to his feet, "if our assassin is MI6's property, I'd say MI6 should assume responsibility starting now, wouldn't you say?"

"I certainly would," Bodie said instantly. "What do you think, Mr Smith?"

Smith, it seemed, hadn't been expecting capitulation. "I—certainly. Of course," he managed.

"Excellent," Bodie said. "She's all yours. Have a nice evening. And night. And morning. Come on, Ray, we're wanted elsewhere."

Doyle pushed past Smith, whose face was rapidly falling, to join Bodie, who was still grinning at him in a conspiratorial kind of way.

"Good night," he called back, to Smith, politely, and Bodie started laughing almost as soon as he'd shut the door. Doyle couldn't help but join in.

"I think it's almost worth losing Gladys to see the look on his face when he realises he's spending the next eighteen hours guarding her," Bodie said, leading him down the corridor.

Doyle frowned. "So we aren't wanted elsewhere?"

"No, no, we are," Bodie assured him. "We've a dinner date with the captain. He's very grateful, you see. I took the liberty of accepting on your behalf."

"Bodie."

"I happen to know you like dinner."

"Bodie!"

* * *

"Thank you for coming, gentlemen," Llewellyn said to both of them, after they had been seated and taken the offered drinks. "I had wanted to invite you earlier, but I feared that, as you were undercover, it would be... inappropriate."

That was probably true, Doyle thought.

"Not as inappropriate as the last time you had me over for dinner, sir," Bodie said brightly. "Speaking in terms of general societal approval."

The captain nearly inhaled his wine, then made a pained face, but not at Bodie. At Doyle. He probably didn't think Doyle knew about it. And Doyle wouldn't have, if it were up to Bodie to tell him anything. He'd have been just as confused as the day he met the captain.

"Don't worry," Doyle said, when the captain looked like could breathe again. "I know. Bodie told me all about the wonderful times he had at sea."

Llewellyn relaxed, but only a little. "Oh."

"I'm," Doyle searched for a word, "open-minded." From across the table, Bodie smirked, and Doyle felt a slight pressure against his leg. Bodie's foot. Of course Bodie'd think it was funny to fondle him under the table. Doyle smiled politely. They were going to play it like that, were they?

"How has life been treating you, sir?" Bodie asked, as if he were the sort of person who wasn't at this very moment sliding his foot up Doyle's calf.

He beamed. "It's not anything different to the old days, Will—"

"Bodie," Bodie reminded him.

"Bodie," he corrected himself, and took another drink. "But I do wonder what you've been up to." His behaviour was warm, cordial. Doyle supposed it was what you'd expect from lovers who had parted on good terms.

"Don't think I'm allowed to tell you too much of CI5 business," Bodie said, dissembling. Even with this man, their history, Bodie wasn't going to tell him anything? Doyle snorted. Some things never changed. And what would Bodie do without him?

"I'm sure Bodie would be happy to tell you what he did before he joined CI5. That isn't classified," Doyle put in. There. Let him try to get out of that.

Bodie nodded a perfectly sincere-looking acquiescence, and the pressure on Doyle's leg, light, teasing, suddenly slid higher, much higher, pushed harder, and Doyle nearly spilled his wine through the sudden haze of lust.

"Certainly," Bodie began graciously, and Doyle was grateful he didn't have to say much because he wasn't sure he could. He ought to be angry with Bodie, or at least mildly peeved, but he couldn't find it within himself to feel anything other than... happy. When was the last time he'd been happy? Like this?

He'd thought he'd been lying when he told Bodie's bunkmates how he loved him. He'd thought he was doing it for the cover. It had been more true than he knew. He _belonged_ here, wherever Bodie was. It was real and right, like finding the missing piece of a puzzle.

They chatted, and ate, and chatted some more, and Doyle was inwardly amused to note that Bodie spun a tale of his whereabouts that did not, in fact, include mention of anything illegal that he might have done—given his past, it was quite a feat. He still didn't want Llewellyn to think badly of him, after all these years. The captain called him "Will" four more times. After the second time, Bodie gave up correcting him.

Not that Bodie was flirting with Llewellyn, or Llewellyn with him. No, all of his attention was focused on Doyle, plain as day to anyone who knew him, even though upon cursory examination one might think he was only having the conversation with Llewellyn. He may have been looking the captain's way, but every nerve and sinew of him was tuned to Doyle, and Doyle knew it. Bodie didn't have to look at him for that to be true. That was the meal. Afters, of course, was a different story.

For afters, it was trifle, and Doyle carefully ate his portion, conscious of Bodie's eyes on him. He licked the spoon slowly, delicately, and of course the food was delicious, but that wasn't why he was doing it. He ran his tongue along the concave surface of the spoon, slowly, licking it clean. He almost thought he heard an intake of breath from across the table and looked up to see Bodie, trying his best to look inscrutable, with his gaze fixed upon Doyle's lips. Oh, he liked that, did he?

By the time he'd finished the serving, ever so slowly, he was positive that Bodie was no longer aware of anyone else in the world, because Bodie jumped when Llewellyn started talking.

"So, what about you, Mr Doyle?" the man asked, jovially enough, but Doyle had the strangest feeling he was being judged. Measured.

"Me?" Doyle said. The man didn't even know him. Why should he care? "What about me?"

"You must have had some adventures as well. What did you do before CI5, if that's not classified?"

The way he said it made it sound like he wasn't asking what he said he was asking. Like he wanted to know what sort of man Ray Doyle was, because he wanted to know whom Bodie loved. Even if Bodie was never going to use the word. And how did you answer that?

He opened his mouth, but it was Bodie who answered.

"Ray was a copper before he was in CI5. The Met. I didn't know him then, so I can't rightly say what he did, but I know how he did it. He was a good man then because he's always been a good man. The kind of bloke who wants to stand up for the downtrodden and knock down the people who made them that way. He's honest. Caring. Fair. Generous. Always wants to do what's right. I'd trust him with my life, without hesitation, I have done every day for eight years, and I've never once regretted it."

Doyle realised his mouth was still hanging open. Bodie met his gaze and smiled back, proud. Of course Bodie liked him, he knew Bodie must like him, but hearing Bodie say it was something else entirely.

Llewellyn nodded briskly, as if that were the kind of answer he'd expected all along to that question. "That's good to hear."

Doyle still couldn't put a sentence together.

"I thought so too," Bodie said quietly.

"Well." Llewellyn pushed his chair away from the table. "I shouldn't wish to take up any more of your time this evening; even an old man like me can tell there are other places you'd rather be."

Doyle felt his face grow hot. "Is it that obvious?"

The man looked at him as if he'd uttered a vile obscenity. "Lad, it's by no means a bad thing," came the gentle voice. "Far from it. I'm delighted that Will's found someone to make him so happy."

"Thank you," Doyle managed, and he shook the man's proffered hand. "I'll try to keep him that way."

"And as for you, Will." The captain turned to Bodie, not haranguing him, but it had the sound of a familiar complaint, between friends. "Don't wait twenty more years. If you ever need anything at all, you are always welcome at any time. You know that."

"I know."

They stood up, and Bodie's hand slid into his, as naturally as breathing, as they bade the captain good night, stepping out into the evening.

* * *

The sky had darkened since the last time Doyle had been outside. It was now well into evening, a bright, beautiful darkness. The sky was filled with stars, more stars than you could ever see in London, more than he'd seen in a long time. The dark water surrounding them sparkled all across the surface, rippled, reflected.

He was barely aware that they were walking anywhere until Bodie slowed, stopped, leaned back. Outlined against the railing, Bodie looked silently at him, eyes brighter than the stars, with the wind, not quite cold, blowing past him. He was so beautiful that it almost hurt to look at him. Behind him, the moon, large and reddish against the horizon, was beginning to rise.

"Ray?"

"Yeah?"

Bodie shifted a little against the railing. "About what I said when you found me, there. When I said I was grateful." He sounded nervous, reluctant, and Doyle stepped forward, next to him at the railing, and together they stared at the moon for a minute.

"I remember," Doyle said, trying to make the words bear everything he felt. "I'm not likely to forget any time soon, I can tell you."

The next words came quietly, and he had to strain to hear them. 

"It doesn't have to be a binding contract. We don't have to do anything else. I tried to tell you, the other night, we didn't have to then, and—"

Doyle shook his head ruefully. "I figured that out. Afterwards."

"I wanted you to know now," Bodie said, still quiet, intense. "You have a choice. And this time you'll make it. If you want to be with me tonight, be with me. Stay with me. No running. No hiding. I can't—I can't take it."

He couldn't hurt Bodie. He'd already hurt him enough. He had to stand up. Be brave. He'd never done this before. But sometimes you didn't know whether you could do a thing until you promised it. And then it turned out you'd been able to do all along.

"I shouldn't have run," Doyle said, knowing that he needed to apologise more, heal the pain that was in Bodie's eyes. "I overreacted, and I understand that just telling you, you've no reason to believe me, if I say I won't—"

"What was it, then? What made you run?"

Doyle looked out at the moon and mumbled the answer, feeling abysmally stupid as he said it. "They were listening. They heard."

Bodie looked at him, relief mixed with confusion. "Bloody hell, that was all it was? We've double-dated birds loads of times, and me in the next room, and sometimes not even the next _room_."

"That was _you_ ," Doyle said. "That's different." He didn't know why. No, he realised, suddenly. He did know why. All along.

"Hey." Bodie's hand brushed lightly against his arm, down to his wrist. "It wasn't exactly my ideal situation either."

"You had an ideal?"

And now it was Bodie who half-turned away, looking embarrassed to be talking about it. "I—yeah. Didn't think it'd ever happen, but—"

He linked his fingers with Bodie's. "Tell me?"

"Oh, you know," Bodie said, still not meeting his eyes, trying to sound casual and failing. He meant it. "The usual. Nice dinner. Moonlight. Candlelight. Flowers. Bottle of wine. Romance. Seduction."

Bodie, who almost never dated the same woman twice, who scoffed at the idea of bringing them flowers, had been dreaming of this? He didn't bring anyone flowers. He didn't —

"You brought me flowers," he said, and Bodie looked at him like he finally got it at last.

"I did."

Doyle swallowed. "I've never done this before. But I want—"

Bodie raised his free hand, held out almost close enough to touch Doyle's cheek, achingly tentative, and the look of hope on his face was just beautiful. "First time for everything, sunshine. Although I have to point out that this would be the second."

"Not for the things I want to do." The rush of his pulse nearly drowned the words in his own head. "I want to do things I've never done. I want so much. I want everything."

"You might not like everything." Bodie's hand, still an inch too far away, wavered a little in the starlight.

"I will, if the other night was any indication. I didn't even know," he said, still dazed, still half-awed, "I didn't know anything in the world could be like that. This. It scares me, how much—"

"How much you liked it." Bodie finished, looking a little dazed himself. "It's all right to be scared, mate. You think I'm not? But we'll have each other, at least for tonight, if you don't—"

"I won't leave," Doyle said.

Bodie smiled at him then, and his voice was barely above a whisper. "All right."

"You know," Doyle tilted his head at the ocean, the rising moon beyond it. Tried to make it an invitation. "You've your moonlight now, eh?"

He felt Bodie's hand touch his face—finally, finally, yes—and slide around to the rest of the back of his neck, as Bodie pulled him close and kissed him. 

The other times Bodie had kissed him had been, in some sense, for the mission. To make them be believable. To make them seem convincing. To put on a show. This was none of those things. Bodie wasn't kissing him because he cared that they ought to look involved, or sound involved. Bodie was kissing him because he cared, full stop. Because he loved him, even if Bodie was never going to admit that. Probably didn't even admit it to himself. Where the other kisses had been rough, this was gentle. Tentative. As if the kiss were asking for permission for the rest of it. Doyle put his arms around Bodie and kissed him back, trying to make the kiss say what he'd told him. _Yes. Please. I can do this_.

The kiss ended, but they stayed wrapped around each other.

Doyle licked his lips, tasting Bodie on them. "Like you imagined?"

Bodie's voice was barely above a whisper. "Better."

"Would you like to continue this elsewhere?"

The corners of Bodie's mouth twitched. "Well, if you start fucking on the deck, the officers make you move. At least if you're where the passengers can see." Christ, Bodie had been up to a lot, hadn't he?

"My place, then," Doyle said, pulling Bodie after him.

* * *

The guns and IDs were dropped on the table almost instantly. Everything else they were wearing was taking a little longer to come off.

Bodie'd held him up against the closed door and kissed him until he couldn't breathe, but made no move either toward the bed or to remove any clothing. Bodie still wasn't sure about him, Doyle realised. Bodie thought he was going to do a runner. Another one. That's why Bodie had stopped kissing him now, why he was waiting. He had to make the first move, the first real move. Prove it.

"You want me?"

As he said it, he unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. Then another. Then another. Bodie's gaze was fixed on his hands, never straying, and Bodie gave a small nod as the last button was undone and Doyle shrugged the shirt off.

"More than anything," Bodie whispered, and he could see the hope now flaring, firming in Bodie's eyes. Bodie knew this was real.

It was easy, then, to lead Bodie to the bed, pull his clothes off piece by piece. He had to see Bodie; he had to know. He hadn't seen him the other night, not really, in the dark, crowded bunk. It could have been a fluke. It could have been that he wouldn't really like the look of him. Which, Doyle realised now, had been an entirely ridiculous idea. He knew Bodie, every inch of him. The curve of his neck. The line of his side to his hip. The faint tracery of scars, here and there, a map of eight years together—there, on his arm, the last time a bullet had grazed him, three weeks ago and newly healed; the jagged dark line on his thigh where last year a scared kid with a knife had been a second too fast. 

He pulled off the last piece, his pants, Bodie lifting off the bed to help him. He'd sneaked glances here and there, locker rooms, changing, like you did, but that was an entirely different matter than having Bodie here, in front of him, sprawled all across the bed, wanton, hard and getting harder just from Doyle looking at him, it seemed. Knowing that Bodie liked it, seeing how much, was fuelling his own desire, arousing him even more. He wanted to touch, taste, see how much Bodie could like it.

The smile Bodie gave him was only a little nervous. "Like what you see?"

"Christ, Bodie," he said, half-blasphemy, half-prayer, "do you know how much you're turning me on?"

Bodie's gaze dropped to his groin, and he knew Bodie could see the growing shape outlined by fabric.

"Maybe you should show me," Bodie whispered. Yes.

He slid off everything else then, every last layer, and Bodie's eyes went wider, darker. A long silent moment passed while they looked at each other, saw each other, and knew. Everything was known.

"What do—" Doyle's throat was suddenly dry, and he tried again. "What do you want to do?" 

Bodie gave him a brilliant grin. "Anything."

"Any recommendations? I bow to your expertise." Best to cover the nervousness with banter, although of course Bodie would know. He always knew.

The grin turned teasing. " _That_ 's," he gestured, "not bowing. You want to fuck me?"

The rush of lust that swept through him was mixed, suddenly, with shame. God, he did, so much, but he couldn't do that to Bodie, could he? They were partners. Equals. He didn't want to lower him.

"It doesn't make me less of a man, so stop _thinking_ that," Bodie said, annoyed, like he had heard him. "I want to, and it's not some kind of fucking self-sacrifice. It feels amazing. You'll like it. Trust me."

It would be all right. He trusted Bodie, with everything. "Yes."

"You'll need your lube. I think, though," he added, "that you'd better go get your condoms, too. I know you have them." The look in his eyes muted a little. Fear? Why?

Doyle was confused, but he went and got the condoms and lube, which Bodie must have noticed one of the times he'd been searching, and threw them on the bed next to Bodie, who was sitting up now. Doyle was still confused. "No one's getting pregnant, eh?"

The fear showed through a little more. "That's not what I'm worried about."

"What, then?"

His face was taut. "You've heard of AIDS?"

"The gay disease?" Doyle asked. Of course he'd heard of it. Why would Bodie ask—oh God. No. He felt like his heart was going to stop. "Bodie, you don't—tell me you don't—"

"I don't have it," Bodie said quickly, and the pressure in Doyle's chest eased up. But Bodie still looked frightened. "As far as I know. Which isn't worth much."

"What do you mean?"

"They don't know yet, the doctors, how to tell if you have it. Can't tell until you get sick." His voice was flat, but his eyes were terrified.

"What makes you think you might?" Doyle asked, trying desperately to think of something that might reassure him. "You said you hadn't been with a man in eight years, and I'm reckoning you were safe with that bloke the other night..."

Bodie nodded. "I was. But they say it could take years, twenty years, maybe. And I don't know if I'll be one of the lucky ones."

Doyle reached out to him, took his hand. "You're awfully lucky as is."

Bodie sighed and squeezed his eyes shut. "I'd have to be the luckiest bastard on Earth. It's not just that I've been with men. The first people who got it, they think, were sailors. Sailors, and people who'd spent time in sub-Saharan Africa. So I'm three for three. Want to run away now? I wouldn't blame you."

He wrapped Bodie in his arms, lust pushed aside for comfort. In their line of work, you got up in the morning knowing every day that you could die. You didn't know when your death would be. But you knew how your death would be. Fast. Your gun would get a stoppage, you'd trip over something, never see the grenade, run out of ammo, cut the wrong wire, the other bloke would be quicker—and it would be over, just like that. And you'd come to terms with that, you'd made your peace. You had to. And if somehow you avoided that, lived through it, made it to retirement, you looked forward to dying the way everyone else, normal people, got to die. Peacefully, after a long life, happy and surrounded by loved ones. It wouldn't be lying in hospital for months, slipping, wasting away, until you couldn't fight any more, knowing all the while that others you loved could be dying too, and you'd done it to them by loving them. It horrified him. It terrified him.

"That's why you've come over all strange lately, the past few months, isn't it?" Doyle realised. "Not chasing the birds."

Bodie nodded. "Didn't want to... infect anyone. Didn't think I could tell you. Would have had to explain this." He raised a hand, indicating the entire situation. His past. His present.

No wonder he'd seemed so out of sorts. He'd been carrying this around with him.

"It'll be all right," Doyle told him. "You've got me."

Bodie relaxed a little in his arms. "You mean it?"

"Course I mean it."

He could almost see as Bodie pulled himself together, composed himself, and knew Bodie was feeling a little better about it.

"Didn't mean to go all weepy on you," Bodie said, sheepish. "Christ, now I've ruined the mood and all. Assuming you still want to. Can't get it from anything we've already done, by the by. You're actually not in much danger from this, unless you're the one getting done to, but I had to say something. Couldn't not tell you now."

"I still want to. Condoms enough to protect us, yeah?" He waited until Bodie nodded. "Kiss me again, bet you anything the mood'll come back."

Bodie smiled, a beautiful, relieved smile, and pulled both of them down to the mattress. Hesitant, at first, but his confidence was clearly rising as they kissed, touched, like they had the other night. And it was just as good. Better, even, now that they weren't being watched.

After a few more minutes Bodie pulled away. "Not that I mind, sunshine, but I thought you wanted to do something else," he offered, shoving his hips just a little closer. His arse.

Doyle stared at him helplessly. He couldn't stop staring. "I—I don't know what to do," he admitted, finally.

An astonished laugh. "Never done this with birds?"

"Not the sort of birds I dated, mate."

Bodie handed him the lube, matter-of-fact. "Fingers first."

He slicked his fingers up, and Bodie rolled over, exposed, turning his head over his shoulder to look at him. Hesitantly, he ran a finger down Bodie's arse, and Bodie arched up into it, trying already to push himself onto it. It was—hot.

"Push," Bodie said, and the words came out almost as a groan. "Harder than with a bird. Won't hurt me."

So he pushed with one finger, and he thought at first it wasn't going to go in, that there was no way this was going to work. Then something gave, opened, and suddenly his finger was inside Bodie. He marvelled at the trust Bodie had in him. It was warm, of course, but he hadn't really quite expected the tightness, the smoothness. "God, Bodie—"

Bodie laughed and he could feel it in his hand. "Now imagine how that feels on your cock," he said, and Doyle had to take a few deep breaths to avoid coming just from the idea of it. 

He swallowed. "All right?"

Bodie nodded. "Could do another finger."

The second finger went in so tightly he didn't think he could move his fingers apart if he tried. Bodie sighed happily and inched his hips up, then down, fucking himself slowly on Doyle's fingers.

"That's the hottest thing I've ever seen," Doyle murmured honestly. It was strange, it was different, but the feeling was undeniable.

Helping, he slid his fingers deeper, as Bodie moved against his hand. His fingertips brushed against something, a shape in the flatness, and Bodie moaned and thrust back hard against him, twice, three times. He could see Bodie's mouth move, wordlessly. Whatever he'd done, Bodie really liked it.

"What was that, Bodie?"

Bodie panted at him over his shoulder and grinned like a madman. "That's the reason it feels fucking amazing. I think we can move on now."

Doyle slid his fingers back out, and Bodie sat up, got out a condom, and began to roll it on him. After he'd covered him, Bodie gave him another one of those grins, regarding his cock intently. "While we're here," he began, then licked up along Doyle's length.

Doyle groaned and thrust his hips up blindly, seeking Bodie's mouth on him, warm and hot, and so clever. Exactly as he had dreamed. Better than he had dreamed. God, if Bodie kept doing that much longer...

"If you want me to be able to do anything else to you," he ground out, and the heat of Bodie's mouth went away.

"Sorry, couldn't resist," Bodie said, sounding not at all sorry as he lay back onto the bed, pulling the pillow up and shoving it under his hips.

Doyle regarded him curiously. "You can do this on your back?"

"I'm flexible." Bodie sounded proud. "And I want to see your face."

How he loved Bodie. And he didn't think, couldn't let himself think about what might happen tomorrow. They had tonight. It would have to be enough.

Bodie was looking at him strangely, almost apprehensive, as he slicked himself up, positioned. "Is this the part where you tell me you've never done this before either?" Doyle asked, one last joke.

"Can't exactly say that." Bodie's lips twitched. "But it's never been like this. Not with someone I—" He broke off, didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to.

Doyle pushed then, slipped inside Bodie, and it was like coming home. He held Bodie's gaze, amazed, and the way Bodie stared back he knew Bodie was feeling it too. They were connected. They fit perfectly, and he knew him, everything about him, and Bodie knew it, opened for him, took him in. It was everything they'd been building towards, every time he looked at Bodie and knew what he'd do. It all came down to this, at the heart of it.

Bodie smiled at him. "Come on, then."

Doyle began to move, slowly at first, then faster. He could feel—everything. All of it. Every piece and scrap of sensation. The way Bodie tightened around him as he thrust forward. Bodie's hands twisting in the sheets. How Bodie moved beneath him, against him, into him, anything but passive, and he almost laughed at himself, about how wrong he'd been before, what he thought it would be like, terrifying, when this was anything but. The heat and life and joy of being in him, as they moved together. The way Bodie was looking at him.

Soon enough, Bodie's movements sped up, faster, impatient. Almost. Almost. He could hold on a little longer. God, he didn't want it to ever end.

"Ray," Bodie breathed. "Fuck. I need—more. Harder. Touch me."

He didn't need to say, because Doyle already knew, shifting his weight to free a hand, hold Bodie's cock, and at the same time he managed to thrust harder, faster, one more, two more, and he couldn't stop —

He gasped and came hard, seeing stars, aware down to his bones of Bodie all around him, holding him as he moved, gentling his thrusts. Bodie's hand was on top of his, still wrapped around Bodie's cock, and together they touched him, stroked him, until finally Bodie's eyes fell shut as he came. His face was beautiful.

When Bodie opened his eyes again, Doyle smiled and let himself go, exhausted. He slid slowly out of him, draping himself all over Bodie, stretching up and kissing him. Skin to skin. Just as good, really, in a different way. Or maybe it was the same way. Relax. All he'd had to do was relax, and that had been what he feared, but it was nothing to fear after all. It was just Bodie. And Bodie had him. Bodie always had him.

He planted a few lazy kisses on the sweat-slick patch of shoulder that was underneath his lips, and Bodie hummed happily, his fingers petting Doyle's back. He felt Bodie's lips press against his forehead and smiled.

"Was it good for you?" Bodie asked, laughing, clearly thrilled with his own cleverness. Doyle couldn't help but join in. He always did.

"Are you seriously asking?" He lifted his head with a great deal of effort, sleepy already, and met Bodie's eyes.

"No," Bodie said, sounding almost thoughtful. "I don't know what that was—I don't even know what happened, but I _know_." Bodie'd felt it too. Of course he had.

"I think that's us. We happened." It hadn't been just the sex. It was about them, and Doyle knew, just like he'd known all these other strange things, that nothing else, no one else was ever going to be as good. This was worth it. It was worth anything. 

"The other night, too, I thought—" And of course Bodie had known it then. And it had terrified Doyle so much he'd left, and Bodie knew it. But he couldn't stay scared long. It was Bodie. He could do this, to be with Bodie. Having tasted this, they couldn't go back.

"I know." He paused. "I'm not leaving."

A quiet chuckle from his partner, beginning to sound sleepy himself now. "Might have trouble finding another bed to sleep in if you did. You wouldn't get this one. Don't think I can move."

"I'm sleeping right here," Doyle mumbled, and he pillowed his head on Bodie's chest.

By the time Bodie's hand came up, laced itself through his curls, he was already asleep.


	10. Chapter 10

Doyle awoke first, opening his eyes to see Bodie lying next to him. It hadn't been a dream. Even if he hadn't been sure about that, he was fairly certain his dreams didn't usually include an urgent need to piss. He extricated himself carefully, picking up Bodie's hand from where it was curled around his arm, smiled to himself as Bodie immediately clutched at the pillow instead, then shuffled as silently as possible to the toilet.

He may have been upright, but he was dreamily half-asleep, and he remained standing in the bathroom for a while. It had been real. He'd—he'd fucked Bodie. And loved it. Him. And he wasn't afraid any more. There was nothing to be afraid of, because —

A tremendous crash, the sound of something shattering, shocked him into full awareness, and he ran back into the bedroom to see the pieces of the bedside lamp on the floor, and Bodie sitting up, dead white, staring into space. He'd seen Bodie look calmer holding a nuclear bomb.

"Bodie!"

Bodie blinked once, and then seemed to see him, the colour coming back into his face. "Ray."

"What the bleeding hell was that?"

Bodie looked down, scrubbed at his eyes, clammed up. "Nothing."

Doyle picked his way around to the far side of the bed, avoiding the broken lamp, and perched on the edge of the bed. If you don't want to tell me, then you don't want to tell me," he said quietly. "But I saw your face. Don't tell me it's nothing."

"It's stupid."

"Stupid's not the same as nothing. And if it got you looking like that, it's not stupid, either. Do you want me to guess? I'll guess."

Bodie knit his hands together and stared at his fingers, not looking at him. "Go ahead."

Doyle had no idea what he was going to say until he'd said it. "The man you fell in love with." Bodie's head shot up. "The first one. The one who isn't dead. The carpenter."

"He—" Bodie paused, swallowed, and then his eyes narrowed. "I didn't tell you he was a carpenter."

"Your friends were worried about you, the other day," Doyle said. "They wanted me to come back. They thought if they told me about your last relationship, I might change my mind."

"How much did they tell you?"

Doyle shrugged. "You were seventeen. He was straight. He left you for his wife. You ran off to Africa." He carefully left out everything Hull and Rutter had mentioned about the emotional impact. Bodie knew his own heart well enough; didn't need him telling him how he felt.

"That's... accurate," Bodie said, slowly, after a long silence. "Did they tell you how he left?"

"They didn't say." Doyle shook his head.

"We'd docked in Southampton," Bodie said, slumping back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling as he talked, like it was a story, something that hadn't happened to him. "We were due to leave the next morning. First port was Dakar. So that night, the last night in dock, we got together like always. And he told me he was leaving. Thanks for the memories, it was fun, buy you a drink sometime, now I've got to get home to the wife. As if he thought I'd actually _understand_. I thought he—never mind what I thought. Asked him to stay with me anyway, for the night, and he said yes, and I tricked myself into thinking, you know, that it was more. That I could make him change his mind."

Oh, Bodie. Hull had been right; he hadn't ever healed, Doyle knew, hearing the catch in Bodie's voice. He longed to hold him. But the tale wasn't over.

Bodie's voice rasped, dry. "So we did what you usually do, which is take an unused stateroom, make yourself at home for the night. It was one of these first-class deluxe cabins. They look more or less the same as they did then, too. Took him to bed. Pulled out every trick I knew. He wouldn't even kiss me, but I was a stupid kid, and I thought, well, if he came, that was as good as gold, eh? So he did, and I didn't, of course, as he hardly even cared to touch me, and we fell asleep together. Or at least I fell asleep. And when I woke up in the morning, he was gone. He'd left, and the ship had already left port while I was asleep. Didn't even say goodbye. So I got out of there, as soon as I could, jumped ship. Begged Llewellyn to keep it off my record first, and he did."

God. No wonder. That would do it, all right. "And when you woke up this morning, it looked like the same place, and you thought _I_ was gone..."

"Yeah." Bodie shut his eyes. "Told you it was stupid."

Doyle lay down next to him, the bed settling under his weight, and brought a hand up slowly to stroke Bodie's face. Bodie looked at him like he was offering a second chance at life. "I'm still here."

Bodie's jaw worked, muscles moving under his fingertips. "I see that."

"And just so we're on the same page here," he said, feeling light-headed, "I'm beginning to get the impression that you might want more than a one-night stand out of this. Correct me if I'm wrong."

"You're not wrong," Bodie said, looking a little uncertain. Could he really not know how Doyle felt?

"Wonderful," he said, and leaned over to kiss Bodie thoroughly. When they broke apart, Bodie was smiling. "I'd like that too. I'd really like that. I don't know what's going to happen when we get back to land—"

Bodie's smile dimmed a little. "We'll worry about it as it comes. One day at a time."

"All right," Doyle said, hopeful and scared at the same time. "But what about—"

Someone knocked on the door, and they looked at each other in confusion for a few seconds until the knock came again.

"Shit," he spat out, scrambling off the bed.

"Trousers!" Bodie called to him, fumbling through the pile of lamp shards and throwing Doyle his jeans. "Don't want to frighten the horses, sunshine."

"Yeah, yeah." He hopped across the sitting area, pulling the jeans up as he went, as Bodie was pulling on his clothes from the night before.

Opening the door, he found Hull and Rutter, glaring balefully at him. He wasn't particularly surprised.

"We were wondering," Hull began, "if you had any news about our roommate." Oh.

Bodie waved an arm at them from across the room, buttoning his shirt up as he did. "Hello. Suppose you're wondering why I didn't show up to work today." He didn't sound apologetic at all.

Rutter looked back and forth between the two of them, then poked Hull in the arm. "You owe me five quid."

"Actually," said Hull, ignoring his lover, "the passengers couldn't care less about their rooms when we make Southampton in an hour. We were wondering if you were dead."

"Dead?" Bodie frowned and tossed Doyle a t-shirt as he came into the living area. Doyle caught it easily, without looking, and pulled it on. "Who's saying I'm dead?"

"Someone," Hull looked pointedly at Doyle, "came by the peak yesterday and said we had to help him find you or you would die. When we didn't see you since, we were naturally concerned as to your well-being."

Doyle returned the look Bodie gave him, unflinching. He'd done the right thing. "I didn't know where you were."

"Suppose you'd better come in, then," said Bodie, shutting the door firmly behind Hull and Rutter after they did so. "It's a long story."

The two of them sat down.

There was a pause as they looked around the room, waiting, then —

"Bodie?" Rutter's voice was strange. "There are guns on the table over there, Bodie." Dammit. They hadn't put them away. "What the hell are you mixed up with?"

Two pairs of eyes settled accusingly on Doyle, and he had to laugh. The cover had worked so perfectly. They had trusted Bodie so much that this strange and threatening thing naturally had to be Doyle's fault.

"It's all right," said Doyle, but coming from him it of course did nothing to allay their suspicions. "He's with me. I'm with him. Whichever. Both."

Bodie half-smiled. "We're on the side of the angels. CI5."

It was hard to tell which of them was more shocked. "You're joking," Rutter said, quickly. It was the sort of thing you said automatically, without thinking whether or not you could believe it, just denying it.

Doyle shifted the guns on the desk until he found their IDs underneath and tossed them to Bodie, who passed them over for inspection.

"I'll be damned," Hull said, squinting at the picture, and then at Bodie, and then at the picture. "Really?"

"Absolutely," Bodie said. "I wouldn't lie."

Rutter looked at him, mouth a thin line. "If that's not a fake, then you've spent nine days lying to us."

"I don't believe I said anything untrue," Bodie defended himself. "Can't speak for Doyle, there."

"Your name's really Ray Doyle, then?" Rutter asked, and Doyle nodded.

"And I am a civil servant. Of a sort. The same sort Bodie is. We've worked together for years now as partners, which is why we're both here."

Hull stared at him. "Aren't you a little far from home for your work?"

Bodie looked a little uncomfortable. "We can't talk about the details." Was that really all he was going to say? They could say more than that, surely.

"But there was someone aboard we were looking for," Doyle put in, "and we needed agents in the passengers and the crew. MI6 didn't have anyone who could fool you, whom you would trust. We had Bodie."

Rutter was still looking angry. "I don't much care for being fooled."

"And your relationship," Hull said, "that was a fake too? You'd pretend to be together so that you could find this person you were looking for better, and we'd think nothing of finding you wandering about the ship?"

"That was the original plan," said Bodie. "Much to my surprise and happiness, it ended up more real than that." The smile he gave Doyle was full of pure affection, jolting him to the core. It was like mainlining delight. 

"This bloke here, my partner," Doyle chucked a thumb in Bodie's direction, "had apparently been nursing a secret passion for me for eight years. Didn't think to tell me beforehand, can you believe it?" Bodie jumped a little at the words; he'd said nothing of the sort to Doyle, but Doyle knew it had to be true. Bodie'd never looked at him any differently—because he'd always loved him, when he looked at him.

But Bodie was shaking his head and grinning. "Seven years."

Doyle frowned at that and counted again in his head. '75, '76... "No, it's been eight years since we were partnered." 

"I know it's been eight years," Bodie clarified. "But the first year you were a prat."

"Oi!" Doyle moved closer, hit him lightly in the arm.

Bodie held his hand out, stroked along Doyle's jaw with his finger. "Didn't say I didn't fancy you, though. You were still bloody gorgeous, sunshine. Always have been."

"That explains it," Rutter said, and Bodie looked at him curiously.

"Explains what?"

"How you acted," he said.

Bodie's face fell. "All that and we didn't fool you?"

"He did," Rutter said, indicating Doyle. "Trade omi, confused, interested, falling in love, coming out, oh, that was perfect. Spot on."

Doyle winced and said, "I didn't have to act much."

"We know," Hull said. "You, on the other hand, Bodie—you looked at him like you wanted him but you weren't fucking yet. It was reasonable enough the night you met him, but then you kept on doing it. And I couldn't figure out why you weren't when you said you were and it was obvious that you both wanted to."

Bodie looked chagrined. "Do you think anyone else noticed?"

"Don't think they knew you well enough. Not as well as we did."

"Out of curiosity," Rutter asked, "when did you start fucking? You had to have been by—"

"The soiree," Doyle said. That was something they clearly hadn't faked.

"That, I'm afraid," Bodie added, half-camping, "was the wedding night, darlings."

Rutter blinked a few times in surprise. "Christ, Bodie, I'm sorry that had to be it."

"No, don't be sorry," Bodie said. "If it hadn't happened then, we'd never have done anything about it. And I'm glad for it, even if it was a bit of rough going there."

He smiled over at Doyle, and Doyle smiled back, conscious of the eyes on them. He was getting the feeling, though, that they approved.

"Hate to say it," Hull said, "but we've got business to get to. We'll bring you your things before you disembark, if you like. You probably have better things to do than run back down to the peak."

"You're off already?" Bodie frowned. "I'll miss you."

"You'd miss us less if you talked to us more than once every twenty years," Rutter pointed out, affection with a hint of acidity. "Don't just disappear. You know where we live. You could write us. And we're in Southampton often enough these days, since they took us off the Australia run. Come by."

"Maybe we will," Bodie said, and a shadow passed over his face. "Maybe tomorrow. After CI5 sacks us for committing sodomy I'll probably need a new job, wouldn't you say?"

Hull regarded him gravely. "The world's changing, Bodie. Might not be as bad as you think."

"Good luck," Rutter said.

Bodie embraced them both, hugging them hard for a long time. "Safe travels."

When they were done with Bodie, they shook Doyle's hand in turn, Hull first.

"Hurt him and we'll make your life hell," Rutter said cheerfully, gripping Doyle's hand hard enough to bruise.

"I'll take good care of him," Doyle vowed. "I swear it."

"See that you do," Hull said.

And then they were gone, and it was him and Bodie alone in the cabin. The holiday was over. Time to face the real world.

* * *

It seemed like hardly any time passed at all before they were standing on the dock, luggage in hand. They'd waited for everyone else to disembark, of course, because MI6 was certainly going to, and they could at least keep an eye on the final disposition of their assassin.

When it seemed like all the passengers had gone, Doyle finally saw Gladys and Smith coming up behind them. There were dark circles under Smith's eyes, and he glared at them as he passed. Four cars were waiting in the direction they were going, and next to three of them, men in neat dark suits were standing at the kerb and watching Smith's every move. MI6. In almost no time at all, Gladys was settled into the back seat of one of the cars, and another two men in dark suits ran past Doyle, from the ship, carrying boxes. The weapons, probably. MI6 must have got everything.

Doyle watched as the first three cars pulled away. "Do you think we'll actually see her again?"

"Does it matter?"

It was like Bodie knew that wasn't the question he'd wanted to ask. "No."

"I know." Bodie smiled, just a little. "Time to meet our fate." Doyle caught one last glimpse of Bodie's emotions before he shut down, formed his expression into something perfectly businesslike, and they started walking.

The last car in the line, the one that hadn't left, had Cowley standing next to it, Doyle could tell from afar. They hadn't needed personnel in the numbers MI6 had mustered; it wasn't necessary if they weren't taking Gladys. So there was only the one car. Inside, a slight figure sat in the front, whoever was being Cowley's driver today.

"3.7, 4.5," Cowley acknowledged as they came up to him.

"Morning, sir," Bodie said, as they piled their luggage into the boot. Perfectly normal. Like it was an ordinary day, an ordinary op, and nothing different had ever happened.

"You did good work, lads."

"We didn't get her," Doyle pointed out.

"No," Cowley said, "but you found her. We'll discuss the rest at headquarters."

Cowley clambered into the back seat, and Doyle slid in next to him. Bodie came around to the front, passenger side, and got in. Doyle watched intently as he turned his head to the right, saw the driver—

"6.7!" Bodie said, pleasantly. "Haven't seen you in ages." It was Julie. Bodie'd always liked her, and Doyle felt a knot of worry in his stomach begin to tighten. What if what they'd done had just been something you did at sea, not real life? What if Bodie'd expected them to pretend like nothing had happened, go out and chat up birds, fuck birds, and leave nothing but stolen moments and lies for themselves? What if?

Julie gave Bodie a lovely smile, brushed a lock of red hair out of her face, gripped the wheel, and the car pulled away from the kerb. "How was the holiday, 3.7?"

"It was lovely," Bodie said, shortly. Maybe he wasn't going to pretend...?

Cowley started filling them in on the events they'd missed that week, a recital that took a good bit of time, and Doyle hmmed and nodded and said the appropriate things in the pauses. Neither Bodie nor Julie said anything until some time later, when they were well on their way, having been on the motorway for almost an hour.

"Have I come all over in spots, Bodie?" Julie said, lifting a hand from the wheel to pat at her cheek. "You don't want to tell me how you've missed seeing my beautiful face, or how you wish I'd been on the op with you?"

"No spots," Bodie said quickly, still polite. But not flirting. "Did you really want me to tell you all of that?"

Julie shrugged, and Doyle thought he saw her frown. "It's what you usually do. A girl gets to expecting it."

"And I can't change?" asked Bodie. Doyle held his breath. He knew that the flirting never meant anything, not with Julie. It was how Bodie related to women. Or, maybe, he realised, it was how Bodie pretended to. He'd been pretending to be straight; maybe he'd always tried too hard on purpose. But more importantly, he also knew Bodie was doing this for him. To show him. He meant it. 

"No, you can," she said, hesitant. "I just didn't expect you to."

"I didn't either," said Bodie, slowly. "So, have you read any good books lately?"

Julie didn't say anything for a while, no doubt waiting for Bodie to follow it up with a leer, a recommendation of dirty magazines, the sort of thing he would usually say. But he didn't. It was a real question, the sort you'd honestly ask a friend, and not because you wanted to fuck them. It was as if he'd been actually paying attention to her hobbies.

"Not anything new," she said, finally. "Just, you know, rereading old Agatha Christie mysteries."

"Oh, Doyle brought one of those along," Bodie offered. "I skimmed it a little. Something about a dinner party. I can never figure out who the murderer is in those things. Give me thrillers any day."

"It's always the least likely person," Doyle said, seeing that now he was included in the conversation. "The one you think absolutely couldn't have done it."

His heart leapt as Bodie turned his head back to him, parted his lips just a little in a smile. The way Bodie looked at him—it was real, he still meant it, and he wasn't going to chase birds. "If only we'd known that this week, eh, mate?"

Doyle chuckled, a little at the comment, but mostly out of relief. Bodie loved him. They could do this. "Well, if I'd known life would mirror art..."

"Could have nabbed her right away. Hey, did you ever beat her at shuffleboard?"

Doyle made a face. "No."

"Shuffleboard?" Julie asked.

Bodie laughed and started telling the story, Doyle's story, really, of the endless shuffleboard matches, along with how Gladys had behaved as Bodie cleaned her cabin every day, and it kept them all entertained—even Cowley—until they made it home, pulled up into the familiar CI5 car park. It had almost kept him from thinking about what happened now. Debriefing. They'd have to tell Cowley what happened. They had to tell him something. What were they going to say? They hadn't concocted a story together; they'd have to come up with something as the Cow quizzed them...

And it got even worse, as Cowley opened his mouth while they were getting out of the car. "3.7, in my office. 4.5," he eyed Doyle, "don't go anywhere. You'll be after Bodie."

They were being debriefed separately. Bodie first. No time to come up with something to say, present a united front, make sure their stories matched. He had no idea what Bodie was going to say. Was Bodie going to tell him? What would Bodie say?

"Understood," Doyle finally managed.

Getting out of the car, his eyes met Bodie's, and for an instant a pulse of fear passed through them. They both knew what was at stake. Then Bodie turned and followed Cowley into the building.

There was nothing to do now but wait for Cowley to be done with Bodie. He hauled their luggage out of the boot. He waited. He went to the lounge, where he ate a packet of crisps and drank three cups of sludge-like cold coffee in rapid succession. The caffeine, of course, did absolutely nothing to calm his nerves and even less for his bladder. He went to the loo. He had another cup of coffee. He pondered taking up drinking. Or smoking. A new vice. He imagined Bodie in Cowley's office, resigning. Being sacked. Promising he'd keep away from him forever. _Sorry, mate_ , he could just imagine his partner saying. _I'd promised the Cow, you know. No hard feelings_. What was he saying to him?

The door opened, and his caffeine-addled heart hammered against his chest before he could turn and see who it was. Anson. McCabe. Murphy. Not Bodie.

"Heard you were back," Murphy said. "And tan, I see." His eyes narrowed, a bit of jealousy. "Enjoyed your cruise?"

Doyle rolled up his shirt sleeve to display his newly-bronzed arm. "Mmm-hmm. Life of leisure in first class, Murph, let me tell you. Course, the shootout wasn't so leisurely." It was the usual banter. Act cool, act tough, act like nothing you did could hurt you or upset you or frighten you.

"First class?" Anson said. "You two have all the luck."

"Not quite. Bodie had to clean cabins all week," Doyle said, and the three joined him in laughter. "That's rotten luck, isn't it?"

"Oi," McCabe said, "so where's your other half then?" It was the usual joke, something they'd always said, because everyone knew Bodie and Doyle, right? So close they were practically married. Some weeks McCabe called them husbands. Boyfriends. And Bodie had—Bodie had never thought it was funny, Doyle realised. He'd always told him to cut it out. And now Doyle knew why. It wasn't funny when someone taunted you with what you thought couldn't be true.

Doyle tried not to let it show. "He's with the Cow. I'm next, so I'm just waiting about."

"Fancy a game of poker?" Anson asked, grabbing the cards. It was better than nothing.

Three hands later, he at least had his mind a little off Bodie and was losing miserably—what was it with him and games lately?—when the door to the lounge opened again.

This time, it was Bodie. Standing in the doorway. Completely unreadable. Maybe he would have looked different if they could have been alone together, but they couldn't. He had no idea what Bodie had said, what Bodie wanted him to say. What he should say.

"Your turn, 4.5," Bodie said and looked at him like everything was perfectly normal. Doyle stared back and remembered, suddenly, last night, the look on Bodie's face as he came.

Doyle stood up. "All right."

Bodie moved past him, took his seat at the table, and took Doyle's cards over like they were the same person and it didn't really matter which of them played. He still had a shoulder holster on with his gun in. Hadn't surrendered his firearm. Of course, it had been Doyle's gun to begin with, so maybe he felt he couldn't surrender it. But on the other hand, he was still here, sitting down to a game of poker.

"Hello, sailor," McCabe chortled in something that was supposed to be camp but that Doyle knew now was absolutely nothing like it. He made a limp-wristed gesture.

Bodie bared his teeth. "Shut up." He looked back at Doyle. "Come find me when you're done, eh?"

Doyle was still standing in the middle of the room, transfixed, and Murphy nodded over at him. "Better get a move on, Doyle."

"All right, all right," Doyle said. "I'm going." He took one last lingering look. This could be the last time he—

He went.

* * *

Doyle'd managed to push aside most of the anxiety at the beginning. He'd told himself it was just like any other debriefing, and, in a sense, it had been. He'd come in. Cowley'd offered him a seat and some scotch, both of which he'd accepted. He'd sipped the amber liquid, relaxing ever so slightly as Cowley changed the tape on the reel-to-reel and pressed the record button.

The questions had been perfectly standard, and he went into great detail on Gladys. He described the shuffleboard games, the sleepwalking, the nosy behaviour, the access to keys that everyone had—all the things that should have clued him in, but hadn't. He talked about the other people they'd suspected, how they'd investigated Michael from the pool, how he'd thought Maria was suspicious, how he'd thought Smith, the MI6 agent, was really involved. Cowley chuckled dryly and told him it hadn't been the first time someone had mistaken MI6 for assassins. He told him about Ivanov, how they had found him everywhere they were investigating. Cowley said MI6 had suspected him too and that he'd been right about the heroin. Lucky guess. Ivanov wouldn't be a purser much longer. He told him how Bodie hadn't shown up at his door, how he'd asked the crew where Bodie'd been, how he found him tied up. He told him how he'd disarmed the explosives, how they'd confronted Gladys. Cowley nodded approvingly.

His throat was hoarse, having talked for at least half an hour straight, and as he wound down the story he took another drink. He'd told Cowley everything. He'd told Cowley nothing. He didn't tell him about Bodie's plan. He didn't tell him he'd met Bodie's friends. The deckhand Bodie had been with. How Bodie had kissed him, the first time, in the closet. How he'd kissed Bodie, the second time. The soiree, and everything after. Their conversation on the deck. How they'd spent last night. He said none of it.

"So I think that's all I have to say about it, sir," Doyle said, hating himself for lying. It wasn't lying. It was omitting. No. It was lying. And what if he couldn't be with Bodie? What then? Was it worth admitting to any of it?

"Are you certain there is nothing else you wish to add?"

This was his chance. "I am." As soon as he'd said it, he knew he'd made the wrong choice. He should have said something. Too late.

"Very well." Cowley leaned over, pressed stop, then sat back and looked at him. He had the feeling the debriefing wasn't over. This was it. He still had a chance. He was going to say something. He couldn't lie. At least it didn't have to go on tape. No poor secretary would have to transcribe the details. He reached for his ID, ready to drop it on the desk when Cowley would ask for it.

"Would you like to hear 3.7's interview?"

That hadn't at all been the question he was expecting, as he was steeling himself to confess. "What?"

"Bodie's debriefing," Cowley repeated, already changing the tape in the machine to the one that had been in there before, hitting rewind, as if he'd already said yes. "Would you like to listen to it?"

Doyle's heart pounded. Where was this going? "If you think it's pertinent, sir."

"Pertinent?" Cowley sat back and regarded him, inscrutable. "I suppose that's one way of putting it. Have another drink, lad." He refilled Doyle's glass and pressed play.

Bodie's voice came tinnily through the speakers. "...and that's how we got her, sir."

A pause, then Cowley's voice. "Is there anything you wish to add?"

"Yes, sir." Bodie sounded determined. Brave. Christ. He was going to tell him. He'd already told him. Doyle took a drink.

"And that would be?"

A longer pause, very long, as the tape hissed and Doyle held his breath.

Bodie, perfectly calm: "Agent 4.5 and I are involved in a romantic relationship, sir." He'd said "romantic," Doyle's brain babbled, idiotically. Romantic. Not "sexual." He'd said it. He'd _said_ it. Cowley knew.

Another long pause. The sound of a glass clinking. Cowley'd probably needed a drink.

"I don't suppose you'll tell me," Cowley's voice was slow, measured, "that this was entirely for the benefit of the operation and not something you hope to continue."

"It was initially for the benefit of the operation," Bodie said. "It's become something more. Much more."

Another pause, then:

"I ought to have you sacked, you know," came Cowley's reply. Not a threat, more a statement of fact. Doyle heard the sound of something dropping on wood. Bodie's gun and ID, probably. "Och, laddie, put that away. You couldn't resign before I dismissed you. Not without notice."

Another sliding sound, as Bodie took the gun back. "I know." Bodie's voice was practically a whisper, blending into the tape hiss.

"What the hell were you thinking, 3.7? With Doyle? You know better than anyone that it's against regulations." Cowley's voice snapped now, turned angry.

Bodie's voice matched his, steel against steel. "If you'd like me to be sorry, sir, I won't. I'm not sorry, and I'm not ashamed, and I knew exactly what I was doing. And so does Doyle. And if you're going to think that I seduced him, turned him, made him do this, you are absolutely wrong. He was more than willing, and I didn't make him into anything he wasn't already, except maybe aware of it."

"You're my best team!" Cowley roared back. "And I won't have you endangering others, endangering yourselves. Suppose you get into a lovers' spat and get yourselves killed for your trouble. Suppose you get innocent people killed. You want to sacrifice lives because you can't keep your trousers zipped? This is why you made that promise."

"It could happen anyway," Bodie said, turning calm against the anger. "We've had spats before, just as mates, and it came out all right. And I know exactly what I promised and why, and up until now I've kept it. Don't want blackmail material. Don't want me seducing ambassadors and kings. And I won't. Just Doyle. And I don't particularly care who knows."

"And what about when you part ways?" came Cowley's question.

"What?"

"As long as you're together, perhaps, your work might remain unimpaired. But your file has a list of girlfriends as long as my arm, 3.7. A week, two weeks, a month, you'll be over him. You'll either refuse to work with each other, or you'll get killed, or you'll get someone else killed. Or all of the above."

"That won't happen." Bodie's voice was firm.

"Why shouldn't it?"

"I'm not leaving him. He's not leaving me." The confidence in Bodie's voice warmed him, even as listening to the tape made him shake.

"Given your past record, 3.7, I find it hard to believe you. No matter how sure you are. What's different about Doyle?"

Bodie said something so quietly that the tape didn't pick it up, and Cowley seemed not to have either.

"What was that?"

" _I love him_." Bodie's voice was strong, defiant. So he knew. He knew exactly what he felt. "And I know he loves me. This isn't a passing fancy. And if you're going to sack me, then do it. I've killed more men than I can count for CI5, for queen and country, and I get commendations for it, every one a note in my file. And you're going to sit here and tell me that I can kill a man, hundreds of men, but that I can't love one? That this is wrong? You'll never make me believe it. I'll leave CI5 before I'll leave Doyle. I don't need this job. I need him."

Doyle knew his mouth was hanging open. Bodie never said anything like this, about anyone, always put the job first. Bodie—loved him.

"Well." Another long pause. "How long has this been going on?"

A sort of laugh from Bodie. "Three days. Or eight years. Take your pick."

"I don't understand." Cowley's voice, confused.

"We've loved each other since the day we met. We just didn't know it."

A long sigh from Cowley. "All right. Go fetch your partner, Bodie. Send him over."

Now it was Bodie's turn to be confused. "You're not going to—"

"I know what the policy says. But good agents are hard to come by. If it doesn't interfere with your working relationship or embarrass the country, I... fail to notice... many things. I officially have no knowledge, you understand. Do you think you're the only ones in CI5?"

Another silence. "Who else?"

"That's their business." A pause. "They'll probably tell you themselves soon enough. Go on with you."

The sound of a chair shifting, Bodie standing up.

"Thank you, sir."

The sound of footsteps, moving away.

"And Bodie?"

"Yes?"

"Congratulations."

The tape ended. Cowley, staring at the reels, rewound it yet again until he found the point where he'd started playing it for Doyle. He pulled out a pair of scissors and some sellotape from the desk drawer and without looking up cut the tape at that point. He wound it back to the end, cut it again, and taped the two pieces together. 

Then he looked up. "I'll be denying all knowledge of that conversation, of course." He smiled.

"I—" The words stuck in Doyle's throat. "I don't know what to say, sir."

"Take the weekend off, 4.5. Both of you. But I want to see you both here bright and early Monday morning, 8 am."

"Thank you," Doyle murmured. Thanking him seemed so pitiful now, like it wasn't enough for what he'd done. Somehow it hadn't quite sunk in, the magnitude of what he had just heard. He could have Bodie. He could have his job. He could have both. He didn't have to choose. "Thank you so much, sir. I could never have dreamed—"

"Och," Cowley looked faintly embarrassed. "No need for all that."

Cowley stood up, came around from the desk, and offered his hand. Doyle, brimming with gratitude, pulled him into a hug. "Thank you," he said again.

"Off with you now, lad," Cowley said stiffly, extricating himself. "Go see your partner."

"I will," Doyle said, and he darted out the door.

* * *

Doing what Cowley had told him to proved harder than Doyle had thought it would be: Bodie was nowhere to be found. Not in the hallways, not in any of the offices, not the computer room, not the loo. He looked everywhere. Where was Bodie? He started worrying as he raced down the hallway, looked in every room. Where was he? He couldn't just say all those things and leave.

Maybe he could. Maybe Bodie was afraid. It wasn't every day you declared your love for people. Bodie never had before, after all. Maybe he had run. Maybe he was already gone.

In the lounge, McCabe, Anson, and Murphy looked up from the game of poker, still going, as Doyle stuck his head round the door.

"Bodie still here?" He tried to sound casual.

"Yeah, he's invisible," Anson hooted, and McCabe elbowed him in the side.

Murphy squinted in thought. "He left about twenty minutes ago. Said he was going home."

"Ta," said Doyle, though he was anything but thankful. Bodie'd left. Couldn't take it. Changed his mind.

His steps were slow, dejected as he plodded toward the car park, signed out the keys to his favourite gold Capri, picked up his suitcase from where he'd left it. Bodie hadn't waited for him. He'd ring Bodie, he supposed, when he made it home, but what would he say? "Thanks for telling the Cow, he's all right, wish you'd meant it?" No.

He closed the door behind him and stood in the car park. It was a bright, clear day, and the sunlight sparkled off hundreds of windscreens. It didn't quite cheer him up. Not without Bodie. Well, he knew where the Capri was, over on the far side, behind a couple of vans.

As he moved past the other cars he could just about spot his, gleaming in the sunshine. Couldn't make out the details from this far away, but he knew what it looked like well enough.

A familiar figure, black-clad, was sitting on the bonnet, uncurling his legs and starting to stand up. Must have caught sight of Doyle. Was that...?

Doyle's heart raced, and he felt himself smile so widely he thought the muscles in his face would be sore for days.

"Took you long enough," Bodie called out.

"Bodie!"

Doyle sprinted the last twenty yards and ran into Bodie's arms. The Cow was probably watching them from out the window. He didn't care.

"Can't breathe, mate," Bodie said after a minute, and Doyle relaxed his grip just a little. "What's all this, eh?"

"Couldn't find you," Doyle mumbled into Bodie's neck. "Murph said you'd gone home, and I thought—"

Bodie stroked his hair. "You thought I'd left?"

"That's what he said. And it really did a number on me after hearing what you'd said."

He felt Bodie's fingers twist one of his curls. "What I'd said?"

"The Cow played me your tape. The end of it. And then destroyed it."

Bodie tensed a little under him. Probably remembering exactly what he'd said. Waiting for his reaction. "And?"

Doyle brought his head back, looked Bodie full in the face. "I love you too. Why don't you try telling _me_ these things, idiot?"

His partner's smile was brilliant, dazzling. "Thought it was implied."

"Suppose so," Doyle said, then kissed him, right in the middle of the CI5 car park, where anyone could see. Let them look.

Bodie laughed joyfully and took his hand. "Come on, sunshine, let's go home."

It was a beautiful day.

**Author's Note:**

> In September 2008, I'd only just started watching Pros, and I was at the stage of my fannish obsession where I tried to relate everything I saw to it. So when I was at the library and came across a book on gay life at sea, my first thought was "Hey, Bodie was in the merchant navy!" and I grabbed the book and brought it home with me. Most of the stories I'd read in Pros that mentioned Bodie's past were about his days in Africa, and situated all his gay experience there. If they mentioned his time at sea, it was often straight and kind of depressing.
> 
> It turned out that there was a whole lot of gay life in the merchant navy, which is what the book was mostly about. The general impression the book gave was that the merchant navy was _fabulous_. Especially the cruise ships. (Which, yes, are technically part of the merchant navy!) The book was full of pictures of happy gay sailors, some in drag, arms around each other, grinning at the camera. And I thought, "That's Bodie. That's what Bodie did. He went to sea and was gay and happy and learned to speak Polari and he had a wonderful time."
> 
> The rest of the story sprang out of that.
> 
> (The book, by the way, is _Hello Sailor: The Hidden History of Gay Life at Sea_ , by Paul Baker and Jo Stanley. It is very good.)
> 
> On the subject of historical accuracy: _Arcadia_ is the name of a real cruise ship, and it really did go to Dakar in 1964. I believe it also ran aground in Hawaii. I liked the name, and some of the descriptions are based off how the actual ship looked. That's about as far as accuracy extends. That _Arcadia_ was scrapped in 1979, and this story is set in 1983. Think of this as a sort of AU. (There is another ship now bearing the name, but it didn't exist then either.) Also, I'd like to make it clear that I have no idea who the captain of the real ship was and I am not saying anything at all about the sexual orientation of anyone who may have served there. I did borrow a couple stories from _Hello Sailor_ , because, well, they were interesting. Also I have never actually been on a cruise ship in my life; I apologize for any inaccuracies there.
> 
> The Polari is accurate to the best of my linguistic ability. My main source here was Paul Baker's _Polari: The Lost Language of Gay Men_ , which I recommend highly, although it helps to know formal linguistic theory. An easier work to find (and read) is Baker's book _Fantabulosa: A Dictionary of Polari and Gay Slang_ , which reprints the glossary from his Polari book.


End file.
